


Crooked Timber

by TheGoliathBeetle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cutting, Depression, M/M, Scratching, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 93,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/pseuds/TheGoliathBeetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an artist, Lovino understands that perfection doesn't exist. If only Antonio agreed with him, and stopped trying to hurt himself. -Human (College) AU. Spamano multi-chapter with other minor pairings. Depressed!Antonio, Writer!Antonio, Artist!Lovino- Warnings for self-harm and triggering content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midnight's Children

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello!
> 
> This fic is about self-harm. Not cutting, though. Scratching. Although I will not deny that there are mentions of cutting, including possible graphic descriptions. And mentions of not eating, too, though not necessarily as an eating disorder.
> 
> If anything about this triggers you, please don't read it. I don't care as much about the review count. I would much rather all you awesome people remain healthy and safe. I hope that's clear, okay? So, yeah – trigger warnings for dark stuff.
> 
> The title of this story comes from the quote by Immanuel Kant, which goes, "Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made."
> 
> All chapters will have a quote from a book or a poem. The chapter titles are names of books. I wanted to do a self-harming Antonio because there isn't nearly enough of that in this fandom. It's a little tricky. I mean, I've written sad!Antonio before, but to push his character to the extremes of self-harm is not easy. I hope I haven't completely screwed it up in this fic. *Fingers crossed*. xD
> 
> I hope you like this fic.
> 
> Thanks for checking it out!

_Midnight's Children – Salman Rushdie_

* * *

"Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring." –Margaret Atwood,  _The Blind Assassin._

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

My favourite thing about art was that it existed outside of time. It still came from  _somewhere_ , at  _some point in time_ , and depicted an emotion, but art was an entity of its own. Not just painting – although paint was my poison – but music, dance, cooking, acting, literature, cinema. The whole deal. I couldn't sing or play an instrument. I couldn't dance for shit. Feli could cook better than I could, although I considered myself a pro in the kitchen. I couldn't write either, and there was no way in hell I could make a movie. But I enjoyed it all.

Of course I loved painting the most. There was just something about colours on canvas that moved me. I couldn't draw very well, but just give me a paintbrush and some oil paints, and I was  _the_ shit. And that was why I was here. Because this college was the place to be for art. I should have just gone somewhere in Italy. God knows Italy was the place for this kind of thing. But I couldn't. I just couldn't spend another day with my family, forget another  _year._ France was also an option – but who the fuck wanted to go to France?

Not that England was much better. The weather was shit, the food was shit, and the people talked in the weirdest accent. At least the scenery was all right. Monotonously green, sure, but I'd seen worse. This college I was going to was all out of the way. A small student town, but otherwise, no civilisation for kilometres on end. That was probably to keep the whole 'art-y' feel of the place.

The taxi hurtled down a long path, grass on both sides of it, and Hogwarts at the end. Well, not  _Hogwarts_ , really. But that castle made from black stone and the massive campus sure as shit doesn't look like a McDonalds.

But I got it. The art-y feel. It was there. This was the sort of place where creativity ran rampant. I could breathe it in the air. The smell of paint, ink, lilting music, the rhythm of dance, the whir of an old movie camera. I felt like I was back in time.

Obviously, though, I wasn't. People wrote with computers. Movies were recorded on shitty modern cameras. At least the rest stayed the same. The tools got upgraded, but their character remained the same. That was what mattered.

I paid the cab guy. Took my suitcases. Entered the place.

It was fucking enormous.

No, really.

It was  _huge._

There were people milling about everywhere. Shitty stalls for college clubs. Some asshole on a megaphone shouting some shit I could barely make out. Some cheerleaders in the distance. Though why the fuck an art college needed cheerleaders, I'd never know. Did they even  _have_ sports here? Well, maybe. Who cared?

I didn't realise I was standing there gaping at this pseudo-Hogwarts until someone came up to me and cleared his throat. He looked really awkward, a nervous smile etched to his face. But the only thing I could notice – his eyebrows. What fucking caterpillars.

"Erm…" he began with a soft chuckle, "Are you by any chance new here?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

"That's not very nice, is it?"

"Is it?"

"…It isn't."

I blinked at him. What in the yellow flying fucks was this guy about? He said, "Anyway, I'm Arthur Kirkland. I'm new here too."

"What the fuck ever," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Arthur Kirkland had the most pronounced English accent I'd literally ever heard. I mean, yeah, sure, I was in fucking England, but  _still._ We lived in a multi-cultural planet. Chinese electronics. Italian wine. French perfume. Spanish music. I mean, shit. It wasn't impossible to have, I don't know, a bit of a slur, maybe? Or rolling Rs? Or some sort of clipped, Scandinavian tone? This guy sounded like what a plate of scones would taste like: fucking weird.

Then another person showed up. He introduced himself as Toris Laurin-something, told us he was going to be our guide for the first day, signed us in, and showed us to our rooms. Well, flats, really. Two people to an apartment. Arthur picked up his four suitcases and his messenger bag, muttered softly to himself, and followed Toris, who was talking vividly about college activities. Apparently, they did have sports. But they weren't in any major leagues.

Psuedo-Hogwarts was even more castle-y from the inside. It was cold.  _Cold._ Sure, there were radiators and shit, but the atmosphere of this place was quiet, weirdly undisturbed, although there were hundreds of bratty students walking up and down the corridors all the fucking time. The ceilings were very high, the walls plastered and painted pale pink. Toris pointed stuff out for us. This was where the dining area was. That was the route to the auditorium.

Arthur and I were only a corridor away from each other. My apartment was at the end of the hallway on the third storey. Thank god this place had installed elevators. The building was really old.  _Really_ old. The idea of walking up and down nine-million steps every day? Torture.

There was a notice at the door.

_Room 39_

_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_

_Lovino Romano Vargas_

I turned the knob. It was unlocked. It opened easily, and I exhaled softly to myself as I saw the place. Right. This was it, then. College. Art college. In pseudo-Hogwarts, England. Holy  _shit._ I wasn't in Italia anymore. Wasn't under Feli's shadow. Wasn't under the shelter of a home and a family and an endless stream of sunlight and tomatoes. I was on my own. And I was  _doing_  this shit.

Brilliant.

The apartment wasn't very large. But there was a TV, a couch, lots of windows, a kitchenette, one bathroom, and two bedrooms. Perfect. What more did I need? One bedroom door was shut, the other one, I noticed, was open and unused. So that must have been mine.

I lugged my suitcases there. I didn't have much. Clothes, toiletries, passport, visa, my tomato-shaped alarm clock. My iPad and laptop. And, of course, my art supplies. Sketchbooks and paints and brushes and different kinds of pencils – although I didn't draw half as much as I painted. It didn't take very long to put things in order. Clothes in the cupboard. Phone charging. I whipped out my iPad, opened my Kindle app, flipped through some of the books.

I'd insisted on an iPad before leaving. I usually just read normal paper books, but there was no way in fucking hell I was going to carry my collection with me. What if any of it got lost? Much easier to just download and read e-books, although I loved feeling paper and flipping a page when I was done with it. Plus, iPads were versatile. Always useful, especially if something happened to my computer.

When I came out into the living room again, there was nobody around. I checked the fridge. It wasn't very well-stocked, but there were some apples in a bowl on the counter, so I took one, washed it, and ate. Still not as good as home-grown tomatoes. But then, nothing could ever top  _that._

What would Feli be doing right now? Crying for me? Or maybe he was drawing. Or cooking. He loved cooking. We were only two years apart, Feli and I, but he was always the more talented one. He was careful with his money, too. Grandpa always complained about me being a spendthrift. But whatever. This was  _exactly_ why I'd left. I wasn't going to put myself through that anymore. I'd come here to get away from being the shadow. I'd come here to paint. So, fuck 'em.

I sighed, going over the collection of books saved on the iPad. I was in England, so maybe I'd read something written by an Englishman. Just to keep the theme. Ooh, Agatha Christie. Damn, that  _bella_ knew how to write. I picked out a random Poirot mystery.  _Evil Under the Sun._ I'd read it twice before, but it was still fun. Besides, I felt like a bit of crime fiction. It was either this or Sherlock Holmes, and I'd read every single Holmes story at least ten times.

I don't know how long I must have sat at that table, reading and eating apples. It was calming, at any rate. Because if I'd stopped, if I'd really stopped and  _thought_ about where I was, where my life might be going, I would have freaked the fuck out. I'd lived an extremely sheltered existence. This was completely, totally, absolutely  _new._

It was late afternoon when I finally stopped, switching off the tab and rubbing my eyes. I was starving despite the apples. And where the fuck was my flatmate? Did he have any plans of showing up at all? Of course, I could always go check in that bedroom. It had been shut since I got here. But I hadn't seen any mess in the apartment except for mine.

I went to the bathroom to take a piss. There were things there. A toothbrush, a razor, a bottle of migraine pills. Okay. So  _somebody_ was in that fucking room.

When I got out, I marched over there and slammed my fist against the shut door. What if he was sleeping? Well, then I'd wake him up. This was fucking ridiculous. I'd been here for over four hours. I had to see if I'd even get along with this asshole. If not, I'd have to go ask for a different apartment,  _soon._

The door swung open, and I almost gasped. Holy flying  _shit._ He had the worst bed-head I'd ever seen, but his eyes were such a fascinating colour of – emerald? Leaf? Chartreuse? No, something richer than that. Something darker, something that reminded me of woodlands. I didn't even notice he was saying something until he said, "—Fernandez Carriedo! When did you even get here?" he laughed, running a hand through his hair. He was wearing a black full-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded jeans. "So, you must be Lovino Vargas, right? That's a nice name! I was wondering what it meant, since I've never heard anything like it before. Are you from Spain?"

"—Fuck," I stuttered, caught unawares. "S-Spain?"

" _Si_!" he chirped, walking past me and into the living room. "I'm from Spain. And your name is so Mediterranean, so I thought—"

"Fucking dammit,  _no_!" I snapped, and I heard him stopped abruptly. He'd been peering into the fridge, and winced when I raised my voice. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide in surprise, and his smile faltered just a little.

"O-oh," he said simply, his voice much softer than it had been only seconds ago. "Sorry. Where are you from, then?"

"Italy," I answered, feeling curt.

"Oh, Italy!" and that stupid grin was on his face again. "I've never been there, but I've always wanted to go! Especially Florence."

That grated on my nerves. It shouldn't have, and I stopped myself before I said something stupid. So what if he wanted to see Florence and not Rome? How the hell was he supposed to know that Feli's favourite city was Florence? And anyway, why should it matter? This was stupid. So fucking stupid. I couldn't really be feeling jealous over a fucking city. Florence really was incredible. I loved it too, oh so much. The  _art_! But Rome was where I grew up. And the history there, dammit. The history. In fact, choosing between Florence and Rome was just stupid. Florence was an artist's city. Rome was for the history nerds. Yeah. Exactly. It was like comparing apples and oranges.

I exhaled, pacified.

"Florence is pretty cool," I muttered, the words tasting sour on my tongue despite myself.

"Yup! Ooh, but Rome! I'd totally love to see the Forum. And the Coliseum! And of  _course_ , the Vatican City." I watched a hand fly under his collar, from where he pulled out a golden cross necklace and dropped it over his shirt. When he looked at me next, his eyes were wide with excitement. "So where do you come from?"

"Florence," I replied simply.

"Lucky. You."

"Yeah."

"I'm from Madrid, haha. It's pretty great over there." Antonio had given up on the fridge and was now pulling out drawers. "I was  _so_ sure I'd bought some food with me."

"We could just go to the fucking dining area," I muttered. Toris had said something about it being open for tea or whatever the shit. I mean, tea sounded fucking revolting. I was a coffee-person myself. But it was better than looking for nonexistent food in this stupid apartment.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo's eyes widened. "I don't think that's a good idea. My friend – Francis – he says that English food is the worst thing since the Fall of France! I admit he's a little dramatic, but he usually knows what he's talking about when it comes to food. Oh – found it!" he cried, opening an overhead cupboard and taking out some microwave pasta.

Microwave pasta!

"That shit is  _morally wrong_ ," I gasped in genuine horror.

He laughed. "You sound just like Francis!"

"Fucking hell, I'm serious! If only for the sake of elegance, I try to remain morally pure."

The expression on Antonio's face changed very quickly. One second it was amusement, the next, it was complete surprise. The microwave pasta box fell from his hand, dropping to the ground like a paperweight. "Did you…did you just quote Proust?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Just now!  _If only for the sake of elegance, I try to remain morally pure_. That's Proust!"

"Wait, wait," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You know Proust?"

"Yes! He's amazing!  _The only paradise is paradise lost_. That one always makes me want to cry." But now, Antonio's eyes were wide and excited. His whole body leaned towards me. And even though I was almost ten paces away from him, I automatically took a step back.

"You read Proust," I said. It was a statement. One of total disbelief.

"Yep! And you do too, don't you? Wow, that's so cool. What do you think of him?"

"He's a fucking god," I declared.

"Yes!"

"And we're  _still_ not going to have microwave pasta."

"Aw, but –"

"No."

The dining hall was huge, with long tables and benches. It really did resemble something from Harry Potter. Fuck, I really needed to stop watching so much TV. There was an even longer table towards the front of the room, where students were already lined up and piling food onto their plates. Antonio and I waited for our turn.

"So are you here for their writing course?"

"Fuck no. Art."

"Oh, that's cool! I'm a terrible artist, haha. I'm here for their creative writing course. It's supposed to be really good. Francis – my friend, I mentioned him earlier – he's doing theatre. And Gilbert – he's my other friend – he's learning how to make films. He wants to be a director, haha."

"Fuck, you already have  _friends_?" I muttered. No pressure. No pressure at all. Just some overtly cheery guy buddying-up to practically the whole fucking college. Great.

"They're actually my friends from school," Antonio said with a small grin. "They wanted to do stuff in the art field too. Gilbert tagged along with me and applied here. Francis wouldn't have even  _considered_ England as a place to study, but he came anyway, to keep me company."

"Why would he –" my question died in my throat as the line moved, and I finally got a glimpse of the food. Scones, pudding, some random English crap I didn't recognise. Oh, they had pizza. At least I wouldn't starve. I piled some onto my plate, noticing how they'd skimped on the tomatoes and meat. Cheapskates. Antonio took some pizza too, and some noodles that looked vaguely Chinese. Weird-ass combination. But he was a weird-ass guy, anyway.

We found a free spot at the benches and sat, still talking.

"So," Antonio asked, digging into the noodles, "What else do you like to read?"

I shrugged. "Woolf? Austen? And everyone has a soft spot for Orwell."

"Orwell's good," Antonio said with an approving nod, pausing as he chewed. "Anything modern?"

"Haruki Murakami," I replied without batting an eyelid. "And I guess Alice Munro's short stories are pretty fucking amazing. Salman Rushdie's great, too."

"Those are all wonderful," Antonio said with a big smile. "I especially loved  _Kafka on the Shore_. Murakami's magical realism is something else, really! But I think I preferred  _Norwegian Wood_  more, actually. Naoko's mental illness was pretty interesting."

" _Norwegian Wood_ is a pussy love story," I grumbled, tearing my pizza roughly and chewing hard.

"It's not!" Antonio argued. "Not if you really analyse it. Look – the main character, Toru? He's living in the past. Naoko is a symbol of his past. And the spunky girl, Midori? Midori is a symbol of his future. That's why he loves Naoko so much and so completely. Because he's living in a past that doesn't exist anymore. And Midori is the 'brave beyond'. And that just messes with him, you know? And how does it end? It's totally open-ended! Which is just great!"

"Yeah, but name one Murakami story that  _isn't_ open-ended."

"Haha, fair enough."

"Excuse me," someone said, and I looked up. Arthur Kirkland was standing behind Antonio with an actual cup of tea in his hand – a reminder that this meal was not  _lunch_ , although it felt like it. That crap on the airplane was certainly not a satisfying breakfast, but a combination of jet-lag and apples had kept my initial hunger away.

Arthur Kirkland sat beside us, next to Antonio, and said, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. You were talking about Murakami, correct?"

" _Si_ ," Antonio said with a grin. "I'm Antonio, by the way. And you are?"

"Oh, of course, how silly of me." Arthur extended his hand and introduced himself, all formal-like. He then gave me a small smile. "And I believe me met earlier, Lovino."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I muttered, looking to my plate.

"Do you read Murakami, then?" Antonio asked, turning back to Arthur.

"Oh, hmm, I actually find his dialogue rather… _robotic_. Wouldn't you agree?"

The Spaniard's smile lessened slightly, his expression turning into something more thoughtful. Huh. Murakami's dialogue as robotic? Yeah, I could see it. The thought had never actually occurred to me, though.

"I suppose you can say that," Antonio said thoughtfully, picking at his food as he spoke. "But it's quite endearing, in a way. And I feel like it adds an element of distance to the novel. And that somehow makes the magical realism more…I don't know, realistically magical."

Arthur laughed. "You're joking."

Antonio looked up, and I felt his eyes go quiet. Like when a gust of wind stops blowing prematurely. He said, "No, I'm not." He set his fork down, his right hand moving to his left arm. He merely rested his palm there, his face expressionless.

"Oh well," Arthur shrugged. "That's the beauty of literature, isn't it? We can all have our own opinions."

Antonio started to rub his left arm, chuckling slightly. " _Si,_  that's true." He cleared his throat. "So, are you in the creative writing course?"

"Oh, of course I am. I'm rather keen. My whole family's studied here. It's sort of like a tradition."

I felt like Antonio was about to say something in response, but he was interrupted by a loud noise. A person. His voice echoed down the room as he approached, shouting, "Tooooooniiiiiiiii!" Out of the blue, an albino threw an arm around Antonio's shoulder, practically yelling, "There you are! What gives, man? I thought we were gonna meet for lunch! Oh, you should have seen it! Francis was acting like  _such_ a drama queen."

I quickly made eye-contact with Arthur. He was looking rather annoyed at the interruption, his bushy eyebrows knitting closer together, a light scowl on his face. I looked back at Antonio and his friend.

"Gil, hi!" Antonio said happily as 'Gil' slid into the bench beside the Spaniard, not-so-tactfully pushing Arthur to the side. "Sorry, I was so jet-lagged. I went right to sleep."

"It's okay, Toni. Francis was pretty irritable too. But he wandered off now, saw some pretty blonde chick. Isn't this place  _awesome_?" the albino looked from Antonio to me, and then to Arthur. "Sup? I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt. You may call me The Awesome One."

"Pleasure to meet you,  _Gilbert_ ," Arthur said in a tone so fucking haughty I almost burst out laughing. "My name is Arthur Kirkland."

Gilbert gave him an impish smirk – I'm not sure why, maybe he was simply approving of Arthur's name – and then turned to me. "And you are?"

"None of your fucking business," I muttered, crossing my arms across my chest.

Antonio, who'd resumed eating when Gilbert came, began rubbing – no, almost caressing – his left arm again. Gilbert glanced at him and then at me, grinning and saying, "Aw, come on. Don't be so touchy. I won't laugh, if that's what you're worried about."

"Fucking hell! Why would you laugh? My name's fucking great! Asshole!"

"Nice to meet you, Fucking Great. You're right, that is a funny name. But see, I'm not laughing." Gilbert's face was split into an evil grin, enjoying the venomous look I was throwing at him.

Antonio finally interjected. "He's Lovino Vargas. Isn't that a cool name?" He looked at me with hopeful eyes. My first reaction was to give him a look of disgust, but somehow, I just couldn't. Something about Antonio's expression made me soften slightly. Instead, I just glared.

"Well,  _mon ami_ , he certainly looks rather adorable."

And without warning, a hand was on my shoulder. The nails manicured – fucking manicured! – and the voice as silky as melting chocolate. It immediately made me want to turn around and punch the fucker, but before I could, the blonde slid beside me, arm now firmly around my back. " _Bonjour,_ Toni, Gil, Lovino!" and he gave Arthur a sideways glance. "Hello to you too."

"Francis!" Antonio said cheerfully.

"Don't fucking touch me, you oily creep!" I snarled, pushing him away. Francis didn't even look mildly insulted. Was this a common thread between Antonio's two friends? Shit.

"He's a feisty one, no, Toni?"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Don't antagonise him," Arthur muttered, but I noticed him give me a look of sympathy. He then picked up his cup of tea, bringing it to his lips, when –

" _Mais, mon dieu_ , I almost died when I ate the food here, Toni! Gilbert was starving, he was eating like a pig. But he never had any sense of taste, anyway. You and I are going to suffer here. English food is  _so_ revolting."

"What did you say, you bloody wanker!?" Arthur shouted, suddenly and violently losing that façade of politeness.

"Ah, I don't think I actually know your name,  _mon ami_."

"It's Arthur Kirkland, and English food is marvellous! We gave the world scones! Pudding!"

"Yes, and now look where the world's headed," Francis said teasingly, raising an eyebrow in obvious amusement. "Scones, pudding, and  _haggis_ ," Francis said the last word in barely a whisper, his eyes going wide in apparent horror.

Antonio finished the last of his pizza. "It wasn't so bad, Franny."

Oh  _dio._

Franny, Gil, Toni.

What was this, an old ladies' marching band?

* * *

I wasn't sure how I managed that hour. But as soon as Gilbert and Francis decided to leave – apparently, they were flatmates – Arthur was accosted by some loud-mouthed American asking if he had the room keys. And Antonio and I were left alone. We said nothing to each other as we left the dining area, pausing only momentarily to read a flier that had been pinned up to a notice board.

_ALL NEW STUDENTS!_

_TOMORROW IN THE AUDITORIUM!_

_A WELCOMING PARTY!_

_7.00 PM to 12.30 AM_

_BE THERE, OR SUFFER A TERRIBLE FATE – BOREDOM!_

Except, someone had scratched out the 'or' and replaced it with 'and'. So now it read as 'Be there, and suffer a terrible fate – boredom!'

Antonio snorted when he read the thing, his hand flying to his mouth as he tried to still his chuckles. I just blinked at it in disbelief. "Are the fucking with us or something?"

"I don't know, Lovi. But it's pretty funny!"

"DON'T call me Lovi."

My tone suddenly made him fall silent, his eyes going wide. His right hand went over his left wrist, and Antonio said. "O-oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to –"

I stared at him. I hadn't meant to sound so angry. It just fucking happened. And now, with him looking like that…his expression would make someone believe his pet dog had died. Fuck. Now I was feeling guilty.

"I-I mean," I stammered, suddenly backtracking. "Only my family calls me that, so…" my voice trailed away, and I felt like a complete loser. Why did I always do this? This was why Feli always had more friends than me. Because I was a horrible, unpleasant assho – erm,  _because I wasn't very social_. And it was okay to not be social, as long as I was nice about it. Right. That was what I needed to work on. Not everybody liked being with people all the time. It was simply individual differences. Nothing wrong with that.

"Oh," Antonio said simply. For some reason, his expression didn't change. If anything, he looked even more upset. "Sorry. I didn't mean to step over any boundaries."

"It's fine," I muttered quietly, looking to my feet. Fuck, I could  _feel_ my face become red under his green-eyed stare. "I don't mind. What the fuck ever. Call me Lovi if you want." Feli and  _nonno_ did it, and honestly, I didn't give a shit one way or another. I'd been called Lovi since I was a kid. It was practically a second name, anyway.

Antonio cleared his throat. "Okay, Lovi." He didn't release his grip on his wrist. "Come on, let's go back to the apartment."

When we entered the flat, Antonio quietly locked himself into his room, and didn't come out for the next two hours. Meanwhile, I reset my tomato clock to England's time, and then my mobile and my iPad. I put the earplugs into my phone and played a Mozart sonata.

And then, I took out my supplies and painted. There was an unfinished picture I was working on. A portrait of Feli. I'd wanted to give it to him before I left, but between packing, shopping, documents, and last-minute mayhem, I hadn't had the time. In fact, I'd been feeling like shit when I'd boarded that plane, since Feli had been sobbing, telling me he'd miss me and would I please call him every day and please don't forget about him and whatever the hell Feli dreamed up in his airy little head. He'd have liked that picture to hold on to.

Oh well, I guess I'd just post it to him when I was done.

Later, Antonio entered my room to ask if I was hungry, and I paused the Mozart to look at him. "Yeah, what?"

"Oh, nothing! I didn't mean to disturb you, but dinner starts in twenty minutes, and I was wondering if you were keen on going. They shut the kitchens at ten, so there's still time." His eyes glittered in excitement as he saw the painting. "Oh, that's absolutely wonderful! Is that you? Oh, no, it doesn't look like you!"

"It's my brother," I muttered simply, looking at the still-wet brushstrokes of red and blue and amber. The desk I was sitting at was stained in paint too. I'd have to scrub it off later, what a fucking pain.

Antonio tentatively approached. "It's really good," he told me. "You're really talented."

"Thanks." My face went red again. I wasn't used to compliments.

"Ooh, what are you listening to?" he asked,gesturing to my phone and the earphones still plugged into it.

"Mozart. Symphony No. 25 in G minor, K," I deadpanned.

"Wow. That's…intense," Antonio laughed. "You know he was a prodigy?"

"Of course. Who the fuck doesn't know that?"

"It's pretty cool, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "I guess so?"

"I like the idea of prodigies," Antonio said, his eyes bright and happy. "Anyway, dinner?"

"You go ahead if you want. I'll eat later. After I finish this."

"Oh, never mind, I'll wait!" he sing-songed as he waltzed out of the room.

"You'll be waiting a long fucking time!" I called after him, but he'd already closed the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

It was half past midnight, and I still couldn't sleep. Which was fucking weird, since I'd had a long day. Maybe it was the excitement, I don't know. But I was pretty pumped for this. I mean, classes officially started in a week, but the whole idea of being on my own, doing my own thing…so freeing. At home it was always Feli-this and Feli-that. Now, it was just me. Me, me, selfish, stupid,  _happy_ me.

I sighed in contentment, turning on my side to look at the luminescent hands of the alarm clock. I'd set it for five in the morning. I squeezed my eyes shut. I had an early start tomorrow.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I was sure I had writer's block. Oh, this was so frustrating. Darn it, Antonio, couldn't you think of something? Anything? I stared at the screen of my laptop, at the words on the page. They were like snakes across the screen, vipers dripping venom. This was such rubbish.

That paragraph meandered too much. Oh, look, a typo. Ugh, this part was too melodramatic. Damn this. I hit backspace, cutting out that last sentence and punching in a new one. Did that sound better? Oh, no. I'd repeated a word. Was there a synonym for 'eccedentesiast'? Huh. Probably not. 'Eccedentesiast' was a pretentious word, anyway. And it didn't do to use pretentious words.

Ay, what was I going to  _do_? It was a wonder I'd even been selected to go to this college. After everything that happened back home, I was honestly surprised when my parents let me leave. And that was apart from the fact that the competition here was supposed to be really bad. They'd liked the manuscript I'd sent them, but now, going over it once more, all I could spot were its flaws.  _How_ had they let me in? It must have been a fluke.

But I was here now, right? So I was going to work and make the most of it. I'd fix this lame manuscript, I'd write the next award-winning novel, and I'd live the dream. Simple. I could do this. I could do this. I could – oh god, oh god,  _oh god_.

I clutched my arm, willing myself to breathe. Easy. Don't scratch. Don't scratch. Don't scratch, Toni. It was all okay. I was fine. Nothing bad was happening. Calm down. Calm down. Calm –

My nails dug into my skin, like the tines of a fork stabbing a piece of meat. I pressed down. I would not scratch. I wasn't scratching. I was just holding myself really, really hard. I took a deep breath. Then another. And another. And I let go.

At first, there was nothing but the deep impression of my nails in my skin. How strange skin was. Like clay. It could be moulded into these fascinating shapes, only by the slight pressure of fingernails. I watched as the area turned dark pink. In a few minutes, the impressions would be gone, leaving large red blotches in their wake.

By morning, nobody would even be able to notice this.

I wasn't cutting. This was just…clutching. Yes, holding myself. Not self-harm. This was fine. As long as I didn't cross the line, this was completely fine.

I stared back at the waiting computer. The imperfection in each sentence made me want to cry.


	2. Bridge to Terabithia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Henrique Carriedo is Portugal, Antonio's older brother. I've based him off the fanmade version of his character, although I've dropped two of his four names, and shortened it to just simple 'Henrique'. It's much easier to type on MS Word, that's for sure. I'm also ignoring the fact that they're supposed to be rivals. We know so little about Hetalia's Portugal, anyway. I'm just going to do my own thing. Anyway, he's not a major character in this story.

_Bridge to Terabithia – Katherine Paterson_

* * *

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large - I contain multitudes." – Walt Whitman,  _Song of Myself_

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I almost slept through my alarm clock. Dammit, this stupid fucking time difference would take some getting used to. Sure, there barely  _was_ a time difference, but whatever. But the familiar beep-beep-beep invaded my dream. I wasn't sure what the dream was about – something to do with painting and tomatoes and Harry Potter, I think – it confused the shit out of me. And then, through my hazy consciousness, I registered the noise.

And then I sat up. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I yawned and stretched, one hand reaching out to silence that fucking alarm. I staggered to the bathroom, still half-dazed, and brushed my teeth. I splashed water on my face, not caring that my t-shirt was getting soaked and I was fucking freezing. I took a leak, went back to my room, threw on a hoodie, a pair of socks, and my running shoes.

I set off into the morning. It was still very dark. But the campus was huge, which was just great. I could do at least a couple of rounds of the place. Just that would take about an hour. I always did this. Running was one of the things that kept me sane. I was usually a lazy fucker and I hated exercise, but this de-stressed me. It helped me cope with the rest of the day. Usually, with my whole inferiority complex shit with Feli, I was filled with so much rage that I would take it out on people, things. But if I ran for an hour in the morning, I was tired – and therefore calm – enough to face the day.

Plus, it had become a habit now. I couldn't imagine not doing it. Running was fun. Also, I was Italian; I could run like the wind when I wanted to.

It was  _much_ colder than I'd expected. Maybe if I'd lived on this stupid island for my whole life, I wouldn't have found the climate so bad. But I was used to sunshine and warmth. Not this shit. I was fucking dying. The hoodie did nothing to protect me, and as I ran, cold air slapped my face. At least the physical activity was making my body warmer. Once I got into the swing of things, it would be all right.

I thought I'd be the only dumbfuck running around in a field of grass at some unholy hour of morning. But I wasn't. There was another one, zooming up and down one end of the campus at speeds I didn't deem humanly possible. When I approached, he stopped midway and waved at me. "Hi! Good morning!"

What the shit. It was too early for  _people._

"I'm Alfred Jones," he said in greeting, bounding up to me with a huge grin. Oh, it was the American from before.

"You're Arthur Kirkland's flatmate, right?" I guessed, blurting out the words before I could even stop myself. Dammit, I hadn't wanted to make conversation. Fucking hell, Lovino.

Alfred nodded enthusiastically. "Totally right, dude. Haha, he's still asleep! But it's perfect out here for a run!"

"So why the fuck are we standing around talking to each other?" I muttered.

Alfred laughed again. This guy was like Antonio, in an odd way. A little more boisterous, maybe. He said, "Good point. Race you to that lamppost?" he pointed somewhere in the distance.

"You're on, bastard. On three. One, two – fuck, that's cheating!"

But Alfred had already sped off, laughing hysterically. That jerk bastard! I tore after him, determined to make up for precious seconds lost. No way was I going to lose to a fucking  _American._  An annoying one, at that. I ignored the cold air hitting my eyes, blinking back the water that inevitably formed in them. Dammit, I couldn't lose! I wouldn't!

…I lost.

Alfred was taller, faster, and the asshole had cheated. He stood with one hand on the lamppost, laughing like a maniac and panting lightly. "Y-you should h-have seen your f-face!" he rasped through his mirth.

"You asshole! You cheated! What the fuck! I call for a rematch!"

Alfred's eyes narrowed, a determined smirk on his features. "Okay, dude. Remember, you asked for it. We'll run back to where we started. How about it?"

"Yeah," I growled. "And you're not going to fucking cheat."

"I didn't cheat! You were just counting slowly!"

"Bull. Shit."

"Haha, I'll count this time, if it makes you feel any better."

"You fucking bet it does."

"One, two – dude, not cool."

A taste of his own medicine. I burst into a run, zooming with all my strength towards the goal. Alfred had been expecting that, but I'd already suspected he had. He propelled himself forward, neck-and-neck with me. We made eye-contact, and he flashed me a grin. "Hey, you're fun!" he declared before overtaking, eliciting a feral roar from my throat. I had half a mind to lunge at him and pull him down, but then we'd both end up falling, and I wasn't very keen on the prospect of that.

Alfred won  _again._

And  _again._

And  _again._

By the end of it, both of us had dropped to the grass, spread out and gasping for air. "Y-you're a ch-cheat," I managed, starved of oxygen. A tint of blue was coming upon the horizon.

Alfred let out a sickly sounding chuckle. "Y-you're just s-slow!"

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"Fuck you."

"What's your name, anyway?"

"Lovino fucking Vargas. Remember it, bitch."

Alfred laughed. "How can I forget someone's name when they're introducing themselves like that?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"Heh," Alfred said as he caught his breath. "You're a pretty cool dude. First year?"

"Yeah, obviously."

"What's your course?"

"Art. Sketching, painting, the whole shit. Although I really want to be a painter. What about you?"

"Film-making!" he almost shouted. "I want to make the next Superman movie with Steven Spielberg!"

"…What."

"Yup!"

"…You're fucking insane."

"But in a good way, so that's fine." Alfred shot me a grin, pulling himself to his feet and offering me a hand. I refused it, too proud to accept help to stand. He said, "Anyway, I'm going to go take a shower. I'm  _starving_. Do you think they'll have burgers for breakfast?"

"Oh god, you're going to make me puke at the very thought," I muttered. But yeah, I could smell my sweat very strongly, and I didn't like it one bit.

It was six when I got back, and Antonio was still asleep. Perfect. I didn't want him to see me like this. With sweat in my hair and wet patches all over my clothes, grass and mud sticking to my shoes. Fuck, I probably looked like a wild animal. I showered quickly, the hot water feeling very good on my skin. It was nice to get some shampoo into my hair, too.

By the time I'd stepped out, locked myself in my room and worn my clothes, I was dying of hunger. At this time, I'd usually make myself some coffee and eat that with some bread rolls or whatever the shit, but the fridge was empty. One of us really had to go to the village and pick up some supplies…I raided the cupboards instead. Unlike me, Antonio had come prepared.

I found lots and lots of shitty microwave food – how the fuck could he stomach that crap? – a box of sugar cubes, a small jar of instant coffee, and a packet of potato chips (or  _crisps_ , whatever the English called them). I heated some water in the electric kettle, made the crappy instant coffee and drank it in silence. For now, this would have to do. Breakfast would start only at seven.

I went to my room and fished out my iPad, going to the Agatha Christie book I'd been reading. Antonio came out of his room fifteen minutes later. He blinked in surprise at the fact that the living room lights were switched on, and that I was sitting there, drinking coffee. He still looked a little bit asleep. His hair was all over the place, his fascinating green eyes half-lidded and unfocused. His half-sleeved shirt was crumpled, his tracks coming down just a little, enough for me to see the hemline of his underwear.

He slowly mumbled, "Oh…hi…" A hand came up to rub his face, and I almost gasped.

The skin of his left elbow looked –

Before I could even form a coherent thought of what I'd actually seen, he ambled to the bathroom and shut the door.

Did the bastard have a skin disease? I set my coffee cup down on the table for a moment, trying to compute the marks on his arm. He had a typical – and dare I say it, highly attractive – Mediterranean tan. But despite that, I was sure I saw dark blotches on his arms. Like small bruises. Except, they weren't black and blue, but slightly brown. And they were all over his arm. And…and then there were the  _lines._ I swear to fucking god, it looked like some creature had clawed him. They looked like scratch marks, right from his wrist to his elbow. But it wasn't red and inflamed or anything, so that couldn't have been it. They looked more like weird-ass scars, and scratches didn't scar.

Why the fuck was I even thinking about this? It probably was a skin disease. That would definitely explain why he kept touching his arms yesterday. Not that I cared or anything, but I hadn't exactly had the chance to get to know him better. I was curious about him. Also, he was really, really good-looking, so why the fuck wouldn't I want to talk to him?

He came out of the bathroom, looking distinctly more awake. "Hi, Lovi," he mumbled, slowly walking to the kitchenette to make himself a cup of coffee too. "What are you doing up so early?"

"I went for a run," I muttered, lifting the cup to my lips. "What's your excuse?" After all, classes didn't start for another seven days. This was the time to fuck off and do whatever the shit we wanted to do. We'd be losing that freedom soon.

"I always wake up at this time," he muttered sleepily, pouring the coffee into his cup. "I usually write."

"Oh yeah, you're a writer." How could I have possibly forgotten that? He somehow didn't seem like a writer. Antonio seemed like some sort of weird cross between Alfred and Feli: a total airhead, times two. "What are you working on?"

He sat on the sofa-chair opposite me, crossing his legs under him. "A novel," he told me.

"No shit.  _What is it about_? Idiot."

"Oh!" he gave me an apologetic grin. "Um," he chuckled awkwardly, putting his cup down on the table and rubbing the back of his neck. "You won't like it."

"I don't even fucking know what it's about yet."

"You read Proust. You won't like it."

"What the fuck, bastard? Fine, don't tell me. See if I give a shit." I crossed my arms, rolling my eyes in exasperation. What the hell was his damn problem?

"Okay, okay," he pacified, his cheeks darkening. "Um…so, it's actually historical fiction."

That caught my attention. I glanced up, raising an eyebrow. He looked away, embarrassed. "Historical fiction?"

"Sort of? And it's part fantasy, too. And part mystery. Um, there's basically a lot going on. I actually have too many elements. It's getting a little hard to manage, haha." He paused, waiting for my reaction. I gestured for him to continue, and he said, "Anyway, so, um, it starts during the early days of the Spanish Civil War. It's set in England, actually, which is one of the reasons I was so keen on coming here myself and understanding the place better. Anyway, so basically, a letter arrives from…" and this his voice trailed away, his cheeks becoming even darker. He began to rub his left arm. "Doesn't matter. It's pretty lame. It needs editing."

This was weird. I could sense when something was up. That was why Feli could never lie to me. Feli was a shit liar anyway, but Antonio didn't seem to be much better. Though I couldn't really figure out  _what_ he was lying about. He forced out a laugh that sounded so fake I almost clawed off my own ears, and said, "Anyway, do you think they'll have begun serving breakfast now?"

"No fucking clue. Maybe." I paused, testing the waters. "I'd like to read your novel sometime, if that's okay with you."

His head jerked up, eyes widening slightly. "I-I don't – I mean, it's not very good, I'm not sure –" Up and down, up and down, his right hand traversed the length of his left arm, just rubbing it. Gently at first, but now faster. Shit, what the hell?

"Don't worry about my high-assed book-snobbery," I told him coolly, draining the last of my coffee. "I've read the whole  _Fifty Shades_ trilogy. I don't really have standards." Two lies, one after another.

"You what?" Antonio suddenly asked, and his hands fell to his sides. He gave me a wide-eyed stare and suddenly burst out laughing. "You read  _what_? That's  _mommy porn_!" He kept chortling, saying, "My mother read that. It was…disturbing.  _Dios mío_!" He fell back against the sofa chair, seized with uncontrollable laughter.

I smirked slightly to myself. Well, at least I got him to laugh. That was something. It was a beautiful sound. Antonio seemed like the sort of guy who laughed all the time, but it sounded refreshed and happy no matter what. It was nice. I could never laugh like that.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

Lovi was so  _cute_! I mean, I knew that from the second I saw him, and it only got better after we started talking, but still! Sure, he was a bit temperamental, and it honestly scared me when he snapped at me the other day, but when he wasn't being so moody, he was so much fun! Although I'm not sure I wanted to show my novel to him. It was really bad. It was  _really_ bad. And though he said he'd read  _Fifty Shades_ , I still didn't want to take the chance. Lovi was intelligent and opinionated – and my novel would not survive that. Not yet. I had to make it better.

Anyway, we went down for breakfast. He first made me insist on taking a shower, but I didn't really mind that, because I always got sleepy if I didn't shower in the mornings. And then we went to get some food. Lovi said we'd have to stock up on stuff from the village, and I jumped at the chance. It would be nice to walk around and see the place. Lovi said something about coming along, too. Said something about how he had to see if they had any decent tomatoes, since he wasn't 'going to spend a single fucking Pound on some British 'wannabe-tomato'. Haha, he was so funny. Wannabe-tomato.

He was also really talented. If his painting from last night was anything to go by, anyway. Not that I understood painting. But still. He talked about writers and musicians, but not artists. I wanted to ask him about that. I was sure he'd have some interesting opinions. And since I never really had much to say about these things…I mean, I'd read a lot, but I don't think I'd read as much as Lovi. And I had no idea about music or anything. Ay, he probably thought I was stupid.

I was, though. If I was even a little bit more talented, a little bit smarter, I could probably fix my novel. But it was  _muy_ terrible. The very idea of showing it to someone else…even if it was just Lovi…I mean, even Francis and Gilbert hadn't seen it.

We – Lovi, Francis, Gilbert, Arthur, and his flatmate, Alfred – were eating breakfast when my phone suddenly rang. Oh, it was Henrique. My brother. Why was he calling? Well, I knew why. I just didn't want to think about it.

In Spanish, I said, " _Hi! What's up?_ "

He answered, " _Hey, Toni. You didn't call yesterday after your plane landed, so…I mean, you said you were going to._ "

He was just checking up on me. And not in the normal way, either. I wasn't sick. I wasn't about to kill myself. All of them back home, they just needed to calm down. I was fine. " _Sorry! I was so jetlagged, haha. Anyway, you should see this campus! It's really pretty._ "

" _That's good, that's good. How are you? Mom was asking if you were eating properly._ "

" _Why wouldn't I be eating properly?_ " I asked sharply. They didn't get it. I wasn't starving myself or anything. They were just worried. It was so annoying!

" _Oh, because I've heard the food over there is pretty bad. And you get so picky about your food."_

" _Francis gets picky, not me."_ I watched Francis lift his head up slightly at the sound of his name. I still felt so irritated. It was almost as though I'd lost the ability to have a normal conversation with my family. And they kept giving me looks. As though they were afraid I might disappear. It was…it was just so frightening.

" _Right, I'm just the messenger. Anyway, I have to go. Keep in touch, okay?"_

" _Yes, of course. Talk to you later."_

" _Yeah. Bye!"_

When I put the phone down, Lovi was looking at me very strangely.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

It was like the bastard hadn't even realised he'd been scraping his arm on the edge of the table. The table had sharp-ish edges, they hadn't been rounded. With his phone in his right hand, he'd been moving his left hand up and down against the ends of the table. His skin had become all red.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

When we were walking out of the dining room, Alfred pointed vehemently at the poster and said, "Ooh, a party! We should go!"

"It's technically a school party," Gilbert said with an eye-roll. "It ends at half past midnight. That's so not awesome. It's going to suck."

"I'm afraid I'm with Gilbert on this one," Arthur muttered, crossing his arms.

"Oh come on, dudes. Don't be boring. We can always just go. If it's lame, we'll leave. Simple." Alfred looked at Arthur very pleadingly, and I watched the Briton relent. How sweet. Were they going out or something? Well, they did look good together…Although something about Arthur just put me off. I had a feeling I'd be competing with him. I mean, I knew just how good a writer I was, but I liked it when other people knew as well.

But the novel I was stuck with right now…

I didn't know. I didn't think I want to continue it.

I was such a loser. I should have been able to fix this. Any writer worth half his salt could do this. Not me, though. Oh no, I was pathetic. I should have been nicer to my brother. I should have been more coherent while telling Lovi about my book. I shouldn't have taken so much food – they probably thought I was a slob. I was worth nothing. I'd never make it. I'd never – oh god, oh  _fuck._

Sometimes I wanted to scratch, but sometimes I just wanted to rip the skin right off my bones, or smash my fist into glass. Or just scream and run. Oh  _fuck._ Scratch, scratch, scratch. My nails dug deep into my arm again. Pinching the skin. Creating deep impressions into it. Up, down, up, down, scratch, scratch, faster. Ugh, this didn't hurt enough. I wanted more. I wanted to make myself bleed. Blades would work so well. But I wouldn't do that again. I'd promised my family, and I'd promised Gilbert and Francis. And no matter what, it would kill me to see them disappointed. But I pretended my nails were razors. Up and down they went. Deeper. Repeatedly. Again, again, scratch, scratch.

"Toni, that's quite enough." Francis caught my hand and pulled it away from my left arm, his grip like stone. I hadn't even realised I'd wandered away from the group until I glanced around and saw that they were a full twenty steps away, Alfred and Gilbert talking loudly to keep them entertained. I had a feeling Gilbert was stalling for Francis and I.

My skin  _burned._ That was the worst part about scratching. If you did it too much, too violently, the skin just burned. And it would become very, very sensitive, so that even the cloth of the shirt would irritate it – actually making it itch more.

"You should put some lotion on your arms," Francis slowly said, his eyes holding not even a trace of humour. That was when I finally looked down to see the damage. My skin was pink. Almost dark pink. I'd scratched so roughly that I'd actually pulled back some skin. It flaked off, like dried leaves. I pulled some of it out. It didn't look nice at all. The spots where I'd dug my nails in were especially bad. I could already tell they were going to become permanent. I had so many of these marks all over…They just looked so ugly. But I couldn't stop. I didn't even want to. That was the scary part.

"I'm fine," I muttered, forcing a grin onto my face. It was tiring. I was completely drained. Francis raised an eyebrow.

"What were you thinking about?" he gently prodded, knowing full well that half the thoughts that flit through my mind didn't even make sense. They came and went like wisps. They'd make me want to hurt myself, and when I'd acted on the urge – as I had now – I couldn't even remember what had triggered it. The most overwhelming thought was of my pathetic novel.

My body tensed immediately, and I wrenched my hand out of Francis's grasp, clamping it down on my left arm.

"Toni, don't you dare," Francis warned as I slowly started rubbing my arm. It didn't do much to quell either the urge to scratch, or the desperate fire on my skin, but it kept my hands busy. This way, I could trick myself into thinking I was scratching. It worked. Sometimes.

"I'm okay," I managed after a minute, meaningfully stuffing both my hands into my pockets. I should have carried a jacket. I was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt. My arm looked like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. Raised lines had formed over my skin. I was desperate to trace them. To feel the damage I'd inflicted. To revel in it just once more. Like standing back and admiring handiwork. But Francis was right there, and I knew he wouldn't let me. Again, I forced a smile.

He seemed to have learnt from his previous line of questioning, because he gave up trying to understand what was going on in my head. Instead, he said, "So, are you going to this party? Personally, it seems like a big waste of time. But then again, there might be pretty girls. I wonder if Jeanne will be going. I'd love to see her again."

"Who?" I asked, relaxing slightly. Once Francis got talking about some attractive girl or guy, he'd be at it for hours.

His eyes glittered as he told me about her, another student who wanted to get into theatre. They were both French, which of course made Francis very happy. But other than that, he seemed to really like talking to her. He'd met her yesterday. We walked back to the group, with him re-telling some funny anecdote she'd narrated. Gilbert glanced at me, then at my arm, his eyes turning slightly serious. Arthur and Alfred had wandered off. Lovi was texting someone. He walked off too, making a phone call.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

_Feli: Hi lovi :D Hw is it ther?_

**Lovino: Can you please type like an educated person?**

_Feli: bt m 2 lazy D:_

**Lovino: Fucking hell.**

_Feli: N-E-WAY r u having fn?_

**Lovino: No. I'm having f-u-n. Jeez, Feli, this is embarrassing.**

_Feli: Bleh haha :P Hw r classes?_

**Lovino: They'll begin in a few days. The food is pretty shitty. Better than expected, but still shitty.**

_Feli: Oh i c! do they have pasta_

**Lovino: No.**

_Feli: mio dio im so sorry 4 u_

**Lovino: Yeah, yeah. But the people are okay, I guess. My flatmate doesn't completely annoy the shit out of me, so that's a plus.**

_Feli: oh nice! tell me abt ur frnds_

**Lovino: They're not my friends. Gilbert and Francis are dickheads. Alfred's voice gives me a headache. I can tolerate Arthur. Antonio is…interesting.**

_Feli: ve interesting? in wht way?_

_Feli: lovi? u ther?_

_Feli: helloooooo?_

Arthur and Alfred had wandered off, but I knew Gilbert was deliberately trying to get on my nerves. At least, he wanted my attention. He kept making stupid comments, I didn't even know what about. But I knew something was going on. I could just tell. And sure enough, when I looked up, Antonio had stalked off, Francis was trying to talk to him, and the Spanish idiot was looking extremely stressed.

**Lovino: Hi. Yeah. He's…secretive. And he's my flatmate, so that should keep me occupied, I guess.**

_Feli: maybe he's part of the mafia. wouldnt that b cool?_

**Lovino: Thanks. Now I'll be able to sleep in peace.**

_Feli: ur welcome!_

**Lovino: Sarcasm.**

_Feli: right back at u :P_

**Lovino: Dio. Fuck this. I'm calling you.**

I didn't think I could force conversation with Antonio right now, anyway. He was looking at me. It made me want to blush. Listening to Feli jabber on about everything and anything under the sun would provide the perfect distraction.

And sure, I was right. Feli was going on and on about  _nonno_ and Lupa, our – well, Feli's – cat. I'd never understood why he wanted to call a  _cat_ Lupa, after a mythical  _wolf_ , but Feli's mind worked in strange ways. She was a fat old tabby who sat around and did nothing, but Feli was convinced she'd caught and eaten a bird.  _Nonno_ had planted more tomato saplings.

What domesticity. I think this was partially what I was running away from. It was smothering in Italy. Every day seemed exactly the same as the next. I loved it, of course I did. We had an apartment in Florence, the three of us. I spent every free moment at the museums, looking at the paintings. After our parents died, Feli and I were moved from our house in Rome to  _nonno's_ place. Florence taught me about art. Florence made art seep into my soul. But Rome was where my heart lived. I guess I was more attached to it because I remembered it more. When mom and dad died, Feli was only five. I was seven. That was still pretty young, but whatever. I still felt like I'd grown up there. I certainly lost my childhood there, anyway.

Feli gave the phone to  _nonno_ , and I spoke to him for a bit, answering the usual questions. Did you make it to the campus safely? What is it like over there? Do you have enough warm clothes? Is the food all right? That sort of thing. Not that I listened to what that creep Francis had to say, but I think he had a point when he told me not to touch the English stuff. Everything else was safe. Sort of. I just stuck to my Italian. Because really, how hard was it to make fucking pizza?

Someone was tapping on my shoulder. I lowered the phone momentarily and turned. Holy shit, it was Antonio. His face was very, very close to mine. I could see the pink of his lips, and fucking dammit, those eyes. What. Colour. Were. His. Eyes. I wracked my brain, but nothing. I wish I could paint them.

Fucking hell, I hoped I wasn't going to develop a crush on this guy. He was probably not even gay. He was probably one of those orthodox Catholics who were homophobic, too. I mean, I was fucking lucky my family was so relaxed about this sexuality business, seriously.

Oh, was he talking to me? Fuck it, Lovino, concentrate.

"—So I was wondering if I could have your number, since we're flatmates and all that?" he gave me a small grin. "Oh, and I just wanted to let you know that I'm going back to the apartment. I have the keys with me. Do you want to come with me and take them, once I unlock the door?"

"…Number," I muttered stupidly. "Right." I glanced at the phone in my hand. The call was still going on. "Hold on a minute." I put the phone to my ear, and in Italian, said I'd call back in a few minutes. I pocketed my phone. This would be easier now. "Just take mine and text me with yours."

So I gave him my number, and told him I didn't give a fuck about the keys, since I was going to the village to buy some shit. As long as I wasn't locked out when I got back, no-one would get hurt.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I felt so guilty! Francis and Gilbert were absolutely right. Both of them kind of lectured me. I loved them to bits, but I was sort of hoping they wouldn't actually apply to this place. But Henrique convinced them. He was worried of what I'd do to myself if I was alone. Which was stupid. I wasn't going to do anything drastic. Family always overreacted. It was sweet, because it showed that they loved you. But it was also annoying.

Anyway, Francis and Gilbert were telling me that 'I need to get a grip' and 'Calm down', and at first I was really angry! It was so easy for them to say. But then, I guess they had a point. The year hadn't even  _started_. There was no need to worry so much. So I told them I was going to my room to nap for a bit. They weren't convinced, but they let me be. They understood. I mean, they weren't my parents! They knew what it was like to be lectured – Gilbert especially, since he was never up to any good.

So now, here I was. Standing with my face pressed against the glass of the window in my room. The sight was really pretty. Green fields everywhere, the Gothic structure of the college, those massive iron gates. I felt like I was in a story book. Wouldn't that be cool, if I was? And if I was the main character – maybe some sort of prophesied hero, although I knew that was a cliché. And there would be magic, of course. Not Harry Potter magic, but something else. Maybe elemental magic. I loved that. And I'd have a pet magical bull, which could swim through time. Ooh, that would be funny! What about my partner? All heroes had partners.

Gilbert, Francis? Oh, no, they could be the funny imp-like creatures who gave sound advice  _and_ played stupid pranks, just to rile everyone up. Who else, then? Oh! Oh! Maybe Lovi! He'd be perfect! Because he was so funny! Everyone would like how he cussed. It could be a personality trait. Of course, that wouldn't be the end of it. Just the beginning. Lovi would…he'd be the smart one. Because I was not very bright on my own, haha. But he'd also be the one who got into all sorts of trouble because he'd say something that made the bad guys mad. And I'd go save him! And then I'd try to be funny and kiss him, but he'd punch me in the face. But he wouldn't mean it.

Haha, this is such a silly stor – kiss him? Wait, did I just think that? Well, why not? He was really cute. And funny. And smart! I'd love to get to know him better, that was for sure. Would he be going to that party tonight?

Speaking of that party. Did I want to go? I was really scared. What if the people were mean? What if they thought I was stupid? But the whole point of this was to make friends, right? Plus, I knew Gilbert and Francis were going. Gilbert would throw a fuss, but Francis would go there just to talk to Jeanne. I guess if they were with me, I'd be all right…

No, I had to go. This had to stop. I couldn't be this stressed out about a party. (I forced my hand away from my wrist.) The only way to tackle this was to 'take the bull by the horns', as they said. Besides, where was I?! I was in England, in the college I'd had my heart set on! My best friends were with me. My flatmate was adorable. There was nothing to be worried about. Really. My family was happy and they loved me. We didn't have money problems. I'd never been bullied. I was all set to become a big writer some day. Gilbert and Francis were right. I had to get a grip. And I'd start by going to this party.

And maybe Lovi would be going, too.

I'd be looking forward to that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please comment :)


	3. The Famished Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madeline Jones – Nyo!Canada, because I'm experimenting with Nyo!talia.
> 
> Also, I see Lovi as the type who wouldn't like swearing in front of women, being the charming Italian bello that he is. XD

_The Famished Road – Ben Okri_

* * *

"It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill." – Emilie Autumn,  _The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls_

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

Why was it called a 'village'? That gave off the impression of cows and goats and  _merda_  like that. 'Town' wasn't right either. The  _settlement_  – because that was really the most accurate way to put it – surrounding the college was neither here nor there. It had all the basics, like a train station, post office, shops, bars, restaurants, but it had none of the urban feel. I walked from the campus to the 'village', got lost a couple of times, and eventually stumbled into a  _Tesco_.

Tomatoes, cheese, coffee, soap, and several packets of pasta later, I walked out of the store and right into Alfred. There was a girl with him. I wouldn't even have noticed her under Alfred's exuberant behaviour, but there was something about her that I picked up immediately. Blue stains on her fingers. Oh, was she a painter too?

She had hair just like Alfred's, but longer, tied in two pigtails. She wore a hoodie with the Canadian maple leaf on it, and blinked demurely by Alfred's side. But she was looking at me, her gaze more studying than her mild expression let on.

"Hi, Lovino!" Alfred said cheerfully, "Sup, dude?"

"What the fuck does it look like?" I muttered, lifting the shopping bags just a little for emphasis. But then I glanced at the girl and bit my tongue. I didn't like swearing in front of girls, dammit.

"Haha, chill, dude. Anyway, meet my twin sister, Maddie."

"It's Madeline, actual—" she tried, but Alfred cut her off with a laugh.

"She's doing art too, so I guess you guys will have the same classes." His eyes suddenly narrowed. "But if you even  _look_ at her funny, I swear—"

"Calm the fu— _hell_  down," I muttered irritably, rolling my eyes. "I'm gay, you dipshit."

"Oh," Alfred said, pausing in confusion. "Oh," he said again, his features loosening. "That's cool, then. Good." Madeline, meanwhile, was looking embarrassed, staring at her feet. Why? She better not have been a homophobe, or I was going to flip shit, seriously. This was the 21st century, for fuck's sake!

But instead, she quietly muttered, "He always overreacts to everything." I had to lean in to hear her, and Alfred wasn't even listening. He was peering at  _Tesco_ 's shop windows. "It's actually a little funny how overprotective he is."

"I don't know," I replied with a shrug, relieved she was just shy, and not judgemental. "I've got a dumb little brother, so I'm always overprotective of him. Not that I think you're dumb!" I quickly added, but Madeline just laughed.

"It's all right, I understand what you're trying to say. Are you going to that party tonight?"

I shook my head. "It's going to be stupid, I can just tell."

"Maybe," she agreed, "But I think I'll go. I want to meet new people outside of class. I wonder if any of the teachers would be there. Have you noticed we haven't seen even a single teacher since we got here?"

Well, shit. I hadn't actually thought of that. Where the hell were the teachers?

"Oh…well, isn't there an orientation or some shit?" I winced. Dammit! I was about to apologise for the language, but she spoke before I could.

"Tomorrow," she replied easily. "Check your email, I'm sure you've received a notification. All the new students have. I asked Arthur and Alfred, too. Arthur is –"

"I've met him. Anyway, you're doing art?"

"I dabble," she responded, her cheeks turning slightly pink again. This modesty was amusing. People who 'dabbled' didn't get into this college. You had to be really fucking good. But looking at Madeline now, her face red and her eyes lowered, I could actually understand part of Alfred's over-protectiveness. Even  _I_ was feeling protective of her, and I didn't even know her.

Alfred took that moment to interrupt the conversation, pulling Madeline aside and asking if she wanted something to eat. She waved goodbye to me, and I waved back. Alfred narrowed his eyes again. I fought away the urge to laugh. Fucking twit.

When I got back to the apartment, Antonio was sitting at the table with his laptop in front of him, chewing his lower lip slightly. He glanced up when I got back, and his face brightened. "Oh, hi! Do you need some help?"He jumped to his feet before I could argue, and snatched some of the bags from my arms. Setting them on the countertop, he peered inside. "Wow, Lovi, maybe that's too much pasta?"

"No such thing as 'too much pasta'," I muttered, watching as he started taking things out.

"Should I put them here?" he questioned, opening an overhead cabinet.

"What the fuck ever," I replied nonchalantly. I whipped my phone out, waiting for it to connect to the wifi. When it did, a stream of emails came through. Some of them were Deviantart notifications – comments and shit – but there was one from the college itself, about the orientation tomorrow after breakfast. "Have you seen any teachers around here?"

"Ah, no," Antonio replied with a small chuckle. "But Francis spoke to one of the seniors. Toris, his name was, I think? He said the teachers will show up tomorrow for the orientation. I mean, they're here, but they're getting settled in themselves. Plus, the last of the new students should arrive by tonight. Not everyone's come yet. So they're waiting for everyone to show up. Hey, Lovi, can you think of a synonym for 'eccedentisiast'?"

_ur so talented godfater vargas :3_

I bristled at the way they'd butchered my screen name. Still, it was a nice comment, so I didn't say anything. Another Deviantart comment went:  _I like the contrasting colours. It's a very interesting juxtaposition._ Oh, grammar. Sentences like that could be fucking orgasmic, I swear.

"Lovi?"

"Hm?" I glanced up from my mobile phone. Antonio was staring at me with his head tilted to the side.

"Eccedentisiast. Is there a synonym for that?"

"Ecce-what?" I blinked.

He sighed. "Never mind. I'll just change the sentence. It's a dumb word anyway."

Oh, was he talking about his novel now? He sat back down at the table, resting his chin on his palm as he hit the keyboard. The pasta had been stacked away, but the other bags still needed to be emptied. I got to it. "Want some coffee?" I questioned after a minute, shoving the last of the tomatoes in a drawer. Coffee always helped my creative abilities, anyway. And from the look on his face, he could use a cup or twenty.

"You don't have to," he said with a smile.

"Then I won't," I retorted. One of the few times I tried to be nice, and this shit happened. For  _dio_ 's sake!

He didn't read the annoyance in the air. But I never thought he was the type to. Instead, he walked away from his laptop again, busying himself with heating the water. He took out some instant – since there were two jars of coffee now – and two cups, saying, "But I could make you some, if you'd like. Since you were outside and everything, and it's pretty chilly."

"What the fuck, dammit? I'd offered you, and you blew me off."

He froze. "S-sorry, I didn't mean –"

"Will you calm the fuck down? I was just joking. Goddammit, Antonio, you have to have thicker skin than that."

There was a loud  _clink_ as he accidentally hit a spoon against the ceramic cup. He was facing me now, but his expression was full of open panic. "W-what?"

"What?" I gaped at him.

"Thicker skin…" he repeated, and I saw his hands tremble  _just_ a little. What the holy fuck?

"Uh…yeah. It's a phrase, isn't it?"

"Oh. Yes." He relaxed slightly, turning back to the electric kettle. "Phrase."

"Are you alright?" He was looking very, very stressed.

"Haha, of course. I just got confused for a moment." In a flash, a plastic smile had slipped onto his face. I winced at the sight, deciding to quickly change the subject.

"Anyway, what…what the fuck does 'eccedentisiast' mean? Did you find a synonym?"

"I didn't," Antonio replied, "But I didn't expect to. An eccedentisiast is basically someone who fakes smiles. So in my book, Isabel's been eccedentisiast since the death of her best friend in the war, because she hates showing sadness."

Huh. Coincidence? Maybe…But then, I also knew that if I painted when I was upset, the painting would invariably have a lot of dark colours. Did writers have a similar tendency towards unhappiness in their work when they were upset? I didn't actually know any writers, so I'd never asked one. But I assumed they did. That was what art was about. A place, a time, an emotion. And emotion was so situational. Art captured the situation and expressed it. It was so personal. So dangerously personal. Art was the highest form of human language.

"So, what is your novel about?" I tried again. So far, I knew it was historical-fiction-fantasy-something. I knew it was set in England, around at the start of the Spanish Civil War, and I knew there was an eccedentisiast character called Isabel. This was progress.

He paused as he stirred the coffee in the two cups, slowly handing one of them to me. He gave me a little, hesitant smile, and I watched him relenting. "Well…Isabel fled to England during the Spanish Civil War, along with her best friend, Carlos, and his family, when they're fifteen. They're able to settle in Birmingham and rebuild their lives. But then, World War Two begins. Carlos goes off to fight, and is killed." He halted, taking a deep breath. Talking about it seemed to really bother him. "Isabel is, of course, torn. But she moves on with life, becoming a school teacher for little children. But, in 1947, two years after the war has ended, she receives a letter. From Carlos. The letter has made its way to England from Franco's Spain."

"Oh, so Carlos isn't actually dead."

"He is," Antonio replied, a glimmer of enthusiasm in his eyes. "And the thought of sending a letter filled with pre-Civil War nostalgia to England? Just forget about it. It's not even possible. Not under Franco. But, it does happen. And Isabel is naturally shocked. She tries to ignore it, but more and more letters start to come. And some are friendly, others are pretty romantic, and some are filled with really explosive political opinions. And so, desperate for answers, she goes back to Spain." He paused. "And I won't tell you anymore," he added mischievously.

"I want to read it."

"Haha, Lovi, I'm still editing it."

"I don't give a fuck. This shit is riveting." I made for his laptop, but with speed I didn't know he had, he bounded towards me, snapping the laptop shut.

"The story is pretty good, but the writing isn't."

There was no arguing with his expression, or his tone of voice. I just sighed. "Fine, whatever. But give yourself more credit. It sounds pretty interesting to me."

" _Gracias_ ," he said quietly, opening his laptop again. "I needed that."

"Needed what? A bit of encouragement?"

" _Si_. I'm considering abandoning it altogether."

"What? Oh come on."

"It's terrible. I swear I saw potential in it, but it's terrible. Everything about it is so contrived."

"Maybe if you let me have a look at it…" I didn't like that broken expression on Antonio's face. It didn't suit him one bit. His eyes had dulled. Besides, I knew exactly where he was coming from. To always belittle his own work…hell, I knew what  _that_ felt like all the time. But I'd grown since then, I knew how to reign in those awful thoughts that tried so hard to make me unhappy.

He glanced at me. "I don't know…"

"What's the worst that could happen? Besides, I could give you some feedback. Wouldn't that help?"

He sighed. "I can't argue with that, can I?" He stared sadly at the computer. "Just don't…"  _judge me_ , I mentally finished for him. "I write better than this, usually. Really."

I turned the laptop towards me, went to the top of the document, and sat down on the chair.

The words flowed like honey. Not even exaggerating. They were rich and soft, the language lyrical and beautiful. I'd never been to Spain, but somehow, he managed to take me there. The warm afternoons, bright flavours, happy people. There was rhythm in the way he wrote. The prose moved at a steady, confident pace, without seeming too forceful or too vague. His descriptions were electric, alive. The dialogue was so realistic, the way he wove in Isabel's slight verbal tick, and Carlos's constant laughter. And the  _characters._ Not even five pages into the story, and I was completely sucked into Isabel's relationship with Carlos. Parts of it were hilarious – like when they tried to steal a basket of tomatoes – and other parts were (dare I say it)  _adorable_. I'd be inclined to say it was a 'pussy romance', but it wasn't. It seemed very, very natural.

And then it turned darker. Carlos died ten pages into the book. It was raining in England, and always so cold. Isabel's imagination turned violent. She imagined killing the Germans, one by one. He'd borrowed from  _The Book Thief_ , I could see that, but it had been done in a very inconspicuous, elegant way. She kept forcing laughter she didn't feel, and dealt with her grief in frankly unhealthy ways. Cutting, starving, scratching. Lots of scratching. And then the letters started coming. Just one, at first. And then more.

Half-an-hour had passed in complete silence.

I glanced at Antonio, who was sitting opposite me, nervously stirring his coffee.

"You know, you're really fucking fantastic."

He looked up suddenly. "Oh, you're done?"

"No, I stopped after page thirty-four, but you're brilliant. Chill the fuck out. This is good stuff."

His cheeks darkened. "…Thanks, I guess. I mean, I know it needs some work, but –"

"You could get it published right now. There'd be a fucking bidding war."

He tried not to look too happy, but a smile still crept onto his features. "Thanks." It was such a… _sweet_ expression. Holy fucking god, I was turning into a pansy, but that tiny, embarrassed grin on his face was enough to set me off into a mad blush.  _Dio_ ,  _please don't let me fall for him_.  _Please, please, please_. I mean, what did I even know about him? He could have been a fucking axe-murderer for all I knew!  _Argh! Lovino, get your shit together! Now!_

"So, you're from Madrid, right? What's that like?"

Fucking hell, why was I making conversation? Dammit. Dammit!

He looked slightly surprised at the question, especially since it came out of nowhere, but he grinned so widely that it lit up his whole face – and made me blush an even darker shade of red. He said, "Oh, it's sooooooo pretty! We get a lot of tourists, haha," he added teasingly, as though Florence or Rome didn't get enough of those. "Ooh, you'd  _love_ the Museo del Prado! It has one of the finest collections of Spanish art!"

I gritted my teeth. That place was on my bucket list. "Yeah. I know." El Greco, Goya, Titian…For the longest time,  _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ had been my fucking mobile phone wallpaper.

"And we have the most awesome climate. Haha, I sound like Gilbert. But still! It's never too hot! Or too cold! Oh, you should see it someday. Hey, maybe I could take you! That would be so much fun!"

"W-what?" and here I was, trying NOT to have a crush on him.

" _Si_ ," he said cheerfully, the oblivious fucktard.

"Why the fuck would you take me to Spain?" I almost shouted, and then almost flinched at the drastic change in his expression. Antonio's smile completely fell off his face.

"Well…you don't have to come," he mumbled.

"That's not what I meant!" I replied quickly. "I'm just – fuck it, why would you want to invite a total stranger to your country?"

He tilted his head to the side in confusion. "But Lovi, you're not a total stranger. We're friends, aren't we?"

Well, shit.

We were.

Right, Lovino?

Right.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Great. Now I had a crush on him.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I wasn't sure what to wear for the party, so I just threw on a short-sleeved grey shirt and wore one of my nicer jackets over it. I'd never really cared for what I wore, but the jackets had become a necessity, so I'd splurged a little. Not that I had any visible scars. Well, I guess I did have a few. Some were from blades, but they were so faint that nobody would even notice. But my arms had scratch marks that wouldn't go away. They'd become darker than the colour of my skin. I hadn't even known that was possible.

But really, the jackets were so that I wouldn't scratch. They protected me from myself. And on those days when I just couldn't help it, when I tore them off me and went rabid on my arms, they'd hide the bright red skin.

Apart from that, though, I liked the way I looked in jackets. And I hoped this wouldn't be too stressful. But it was best to be sure.

Lovi was going too! He said something about some girl, Madeline, I think, which made me feel really jealous. I guess it was really silly of me to assume that he was even into guys. And it would be rude to ask…

He looked really adorable, even though he claimed he wasn't wearing anything special. But that jacket and scarf looked so cute on him! He'd said such nice things about my book. It was so sweet that he had such a high opinion of it. I knew where the flaws were, of course, but I always did. No matter what people told me – and they always said very good things about my writing – I knew they didn't have the same eye for detail that I did. Which was okay, of course. But it simply meant that I could only really trust my own judgement when it came to my stories. And this one had serious issues.

Anyway, we set out of our rooms, and ran into Arthur and Alfred. Arthur was talking to me about his own book. It was some sort of stream-of-consciousness thing, which made me really jealous, again. Because I'd been trying to master that style of writing, but it just wouldn't come to me. I'd just try harder, that was all. And I'd read some more. This college had a nine-storey library, so I was sure to find something useful.

The auditorium was pretty large, but I guess it was designed to host fancy plays. Francis was ecstatic when he saw it. It could seat about a thousand people, and it even had pretty balconies! The walls were deep red, and the stage – the huge, huge stage – bore the college's coat of arms on the royal blue curtains. I'd been wondering how they'd host a party in an  _auditorium_ , of all places, and not those lovely large grounds outside, but there was surprisingly enough place. And the stage had been converted into a dance floor.

Also, they'd maybe counted on the fact that most students wouldn't show up. The place was pretty empty. Though there was dance music blaring from speakers and a bowl of punch. A bowl of punch,  _only._ We went to the stage, and that was when the complaining started.

" _Mein Gott_ , this is so lame," Gilbert, beside me, muttered. "I  _told_ you this was going to suck."

Alfred just blinked. "Totally right, dude."

Jeanne said nothing, but she glanced at Francis with a combination of exasperation and amusement.

I spotted Toris talking to blonde guy in hot pink trousers. Toris was looking pretty stressed, and I couldn't exactly blame him. The guy he was speaking to was just sipping some punch, looking completely relaxed. Then there was a couple in the front row of seats. The girl had her head on the guy's shoulder, her long hazel tresses draping over the back of the chair. He had glasses and a cowlick that stuck up oddly from his head, defying gravity. Almost like Lovi's, but not half as cute.

"I'm going back," Lovi muttered haughtily, but before he could make any move to do so, a really, really,  _really_ sleepy looking guy ambled up to us, saying, "Oh, you must be the first-years…look, Toris…they're here…" He gave us all a half-lidded blink. "I'm Heracles. Hi…"

" _Bonsoir_ ,  _mon ami._ Are…we early?" Because for Francis, being early to a party was a social offense. It was because of his insistence that all of us had waited until eight-fifteen to show up.

"No…you're actually…late." Heracles blinked at us again. "Some people…left."

"Why am I not surprised?" Arthur huffed, crossing his arms.

"This wasn't what I'd expected," Madeline whispered to herself, and Gilbert chuckled.

"Kesesese, well, at least the company's not bad," he drawled, making Madeline blush and Alfred turn red in irritation.

Toris and his friend rushed towards us, stopping the argument before it could even begin. "Oh, hello! I think I've met some of you. Anyway, let me introduce myself again. I'm Toris and this is Feliks – Feliks, stop admiring your nails, please, and say hello! – ahem, anyway. Um, you've already met Heracles, and…" he glanced around, rolling his eyes at the couple in the front row. "Those two are Elizabeta and Roderich. Good luck trying to get their attention. They haven't seen each other all summer."

"Wait, Roderich?" Arthur suddenly blurted. "Roderich Edelstein? Is he from Austria?" he peered at the guy in question, who was paying absolutely no attention to our group.

"Duh, like, obviously? That's him," Feliks muttered. "You know of him?"

"I knew he studied here, but…" Arthur trailed off, and then picked up again, saying, "I read about him in the papers last week! He's some sort of…music prodigy or something, isn't he?"

"He keeps giving recitals all over Europe," Feliks commented, adding, "Right Hera…oh, he's asleep again. Poor guy, he really gets hit with the jet-lag every time he flies." And sure enough, Heracles had sunk into a plastic chair on the stage, snoring slightly.

"What the fuck? He should be over his jet-lag by now!" Lovi snapped.

Feliks gave him a very exasperated look. "Are you going to tell him that?"

Lovi grumbled something, but I wasn't listening.

"Prodigy?" I questioned, looking at Arthur and then at Roderich. He was whispering to his girlfriend, who was laughing quietly at whatever he was saying. The sight itself was really cute, but the only word I could comprehend was  _prodigy_.

I suddenly felt really tired.

My arms felt heavy. My head weighed down on my body. I didn't think my knees could support me. I wanted to sit…but the very effort of getting off the stage and going to one of the auditorium seats seemed like torture. Toris was saying something, and Gilbert and Alfred were both complaining about this being a lame excuse for a party, since we were the only people there…but I'd zoned out. I wanted to go back to bed.

I was very aware of the weight of the room keys in my pocket. But I was also aware of the fact that if I moved to leave, Gilbert and Francis would stop me. That was exactly why they were here. They should have studied somewhere else…anywhere but with me…

"…Tonio…"

"Hmm?" I mumbled, staring dazedly at the back wall of the stage.

"…Oi, bastard, listen to me when I talk to you!"

Oh, Lovi. I turned warily to him. "Sorry, I was…I was thinking up a scene for chapter twenty-one."

"Yeah, great," he had a scowl on his face. "I was asking you if you wanted to go back to the room and just eat some pasta or whatever." He glanced back at Toris and Feliks, and added, "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," Toris pulled at his sleeves in an awkward way. "Poor planning on our part."

When I actually glanced around, Arthur, Alfred, Jeanne, and Madeline had already left. Francis was looking at me strangely. Oh man, not again. I forced a smile, the very act almost making me sink to the floor in exhaustion. "Pasta sounds really good, Lovi!"

"Are you sure you don't want to come to our room, Toni?" Francis asked me, his tone just the slightest bit persuasive. "I managed to smuggle some wine in. And I'm going to be cooking some dinner. You know how you love French food."

No, no. I couldn't go there. Gilbert and Francis would dote on me, and I really didn't want that. Even Gilbert was looking at me imploringly. So I quickly defended, "Well, Lovi asked me first! And anyway, pasta sounds really yummy right now." I threw a casual arm around Lovi's shoulder. His sudden blush made me feel light. Well, lighter than I was feeling right now, anyway.

Francis raised an eyebrow, but not in a suggestive way. "Well…okay…but text me later,  _oui_?"

"Yes, of course."

I let Lovi drag me out of the auditorium, sighing in relief.

"Is it just me, or are they really…possessive…of you?" Lovi finally asked as we neared our room. He'd wriggled out from under my arm ages ago, but there was still a faint blush on his cheeks.

"I'm actually not that hungry," I mumbled tiredly.

"What the fuck? You said you wanted pasta, you dumbass!"

" _I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you next time._ "

"Bastard, speak English."

Huh? Had I slipped into Spanish? I hadn't even realised…

I certainly didn't realise when I managed to make it into my room. The last memory I had of that evening was passing out on my pillows, still in fancy jacket and shoes.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I wasn't an idiot. Something was wrong with him. Nobody just became  _tired_ like that. He was perfectly fucking fine until fifteen minutes ago. And his friends. I didn't get that. They were always… _hovering_  around him. Like they expected him to drop dead at any second.

I almost panicked a little when he suddenly slipped into Spanish before closing the door on my face. I was inclined to think it was some sort of weird-ass trance, but that was just the artist in me speaking. No, if I was being logical about it, he just seemed really…drained. Completely out of it. Not normal tiredness, where you could still think coherently. Delirious! That was the word I was looking for. Delirious.

Putting the pasta to boil on the electric stove in the room, I began cutting some tomatoes and shredding some meat. This was better than eating that crap food from the dining room. The apartment's kitchen facilities weren't brilliant, sure, but what was to be expected? Anyway, this wasn't really a problem for me. Both Feli and I were excellent cooks, we could make food out of thin air if we wanted.

There was a knock on the door.

"Wait a minute," I snapped, setting the knife down on the plate (since there wasn't a chopping board), and washing my hands.

I opened the door, and there was Francis. Not Gilbert, just Francis. He was looking at me very concernedly. "Where's Antonio?"

"Asleep," I muttered. "Why?"

"Is he all right?"

"What the fuck? He was tired. So he went to sleep."

Francis looked very uncomfortable. "Okay…will you call me if he gets worse?" He took out a pen from his pocket and scribbled something on the back of a chocolate wrapper. "That's my number. And that's the room Gilbert and I are in."

This was getting really freaky.

"Is he ill or something?" I finally asked.

Francis stared at me. "Well…uh, he had a really bad bout of pneumonia just before he had to come here. He was in hospital and everything. So we're just…"

"Okay," I muttered, not wanting to hear any more. I knew how insanely overprotective I got of Feli even if he had a slight cold. I didn't even know what I'd do if he ended up in hospital. "Yeah," I snatched the wrapper from his hands. "I'll call you if he gets worse."

" _Merci_ ," Francis said. "Good night."

"Whatever. Bye." I slammed the door behind him, and quickly saved his mobile number on my phone. And then I went back to making pasta, but my heart wasn't really in it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antonio just had a bout of depression. More than anything, it's really freaking exhausting.


	4. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alebard Eichel – a human name I came up with for Germania, since I couldn't find one for him.
> 
> Emma Manon – Belgium has a list of four human names, but not a single surname. Emma and Manon were two of the names, so I just used 'Manon' as a surname.
> 
> Xiao Mei – Tiwan

_The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – Mary Ann Shaffer, Annie Barrows_

* * *

"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." – Jorge Luis Borges

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I'd read about what people did to themselves when they felt like this. I was the sort who'd actively look for things that triggered me. But right now, I didn't have the energy to lift my arm, forget scratch. The thought of breaking a safety razor was so tiring I could just pass out trying to think about it. I'd done that once before. It took hours. So I'd kept the razor safe with me, used it several times.

It had hurt at first. In fact, the pain had scared me. But then one day I got so stressed out…and I just used it. It felt like small concentrated flames balancing on the edge of the blade. It didn't  _hurt_ as much as it  _burned_. I used it seven times. It was addictive.

And it scared me so much that I threw it away and told Henrique.

Anyway, right now, it was almost ten in the morning and I was still so tired. I knew I had to get out of bed. We had orientation in an hour. And I hadn't eaten anything last night. Maybe if I had some food in my system…(The thought of chewing and swallowing made me shut my eyes in exhaustion).

Lovi entered the room, but I didn't have the strength to reopen my eyes. I just lay there. Maybe if I pretended to be asleep, he'd leave me alone. But then a cool hand was on my forehead, and he quietly muttered, "Well, you don't have a fever." I didn't move. I wasn't sick. I just wanted a little more rest. He said, "Hey,  _idiota_ , wake up. Eat. We need to be heading out soon."

Exactly. He was right. I had to face the day. It was just an orientation. I'd go back to bed after that. So, hating every muscle in my body, I mumbled, "Okay, Lovi." I forced myself in a sitting position, blinking as my head swam. Lovi was at my bedside, a glass of clear liquid in my hand. He thrust it into my face.

"Sugared water, since I don't have any Gatorade." He blushed and looked away. "I mean, my grandfather's had pneumonia before, so I know how tiring it can be."

Pneumonia? Oh. Francis or Gilbert must have told him that. Still, the sugar would only help. I usually binged on Gatorade when this sort of thing happened. So I took several grateful sips, and managed a smile when I was done. Seeing Lovi's face first thing in the morning? That was enough to make even the worst bouts of tiredness go away.

After that, I managed to get ready. Lovi kept the sugar-water in my room, so I kept drinking from it. He made me eat, too, and asked if I had any medicine with me. Of course I didn't, though. I'd never actually had pneumonia before. So I just fed him a lie (he looked at me suspiciously), and got on with the day.

The orientation was not bad. Gilbert and Francis made me sit with them, and Gilbert slapped my hand away every time I started scratching. The principal was a large, serious-faced man of German origin with pony-tailed blonde hair and severe blue eyes. His name was Professor Alebard Eichel. Every time he said the words 'prestigious institution' or 'high expectations', a jolt of terror would hit me and I'd try to stab my skin with my nails. Gilbert would stop me every time, and Francis would give me worried looks.

Apart from that, though, it went pretty smoothly. We met Jeanne, and Francis looked completely smitten, just like he was last night. Both Gilbert and I agreed this was funny – usually it was Francis teasing  _us_ about our romantic lives. Now, we finally had some dirt on him! And Gilbert ran into Madeline again, although thankfully she was alone, so Gilbert could have an actual conversation with her without Alfred giving him death-glares.

Afterwards, Lovi and I went to the village. He wanted to post a letter – well, a painting – to his brother, and I wanted to buy Gatorade. Just in case this sort of thing happened again. Lovi was so cute! He was being really nice to me. He really did think I was sick, so he kept yelling at me to not over-exert myself. He even told me funny stories about his brother, his grandfather, and their pet cat. In return, I told him about Henrique. We used to fight all the time when we were younger, but we did some crazy things as well.

I made Lovi laugh. He had such a wonderful laugh. When I told him that, he blushed. So I told him he had a lovely blush, too. Then he called me a bastard, and I started to smile.

* * *

On Monday, we had our first class. Since Gilbert, Francis, Alfred, and Jeanne were in the Performing Arts, they were in another wing. Madeline, Lovi, Arthur, and I, however, were in the Visual and Literary Arts, so all our classes were down the East Corridor.

It was initially pretty difficult to navigate our way through the maze-like college, and Arthur and I were a few minutes late. The classroom was massive, but there were only about seven people, including the teacher. Her name was Professor Emma Manon. Emma Manon! She'd written  _Dauntless and Deserted_! It had won the Booker Prize a few years ago! Both Arthur and I were sufficiently dazzled.

The walls had posters and pictures on them of famous quotes or famous alumni – including some of my favourite authors. To think I was in the same classroom where they'd sat and written their masterpieces. It was thrilling and stressful at the same time. Those were large shadows to fill.

I sat behind a large guy from Russia, Ivan Braginski, I believe. There were other students from all parts of the world, including Iceland! I think his name was Emil? Ay, this would take some getting used to. I'd never encountered so many foreign names before. Anyway, Emma made us rearrange the desks so we were sitting in a circle.

"Take a good long look at each other," she told us. "Your classmates will be your friends, your rivals, your critics, and your sounding-boards." But then she gave us a smile. "All of you have been chosen from an enormous pile of applicants. And I've personally gone over your submissions. They're all wonderful. All of you have strong, original voices and a deep desire to convey something to the world.

"By the end of the year, you will each have to submit a completed manuscript. You can't hand in the same thing you used for your college applications. You will have to write something new. They will be critically assessed, as well as judged by a well-known publisher. The best manuscript  _might_ get picked up. We've had times when they've rejected all manuscripts outright, but last year, they signed on Raivas Galante for his book,  _Behind the Curtain, Under the Stairs_. As you can imagine, it's a very big deal.

"But we shouldn't be focusing on minting money. That's not what writing is about. Over the course of the next three years, we want to help you discover your potential as a writer. I'm not promising that you'll all become experts – well, when is anybody ever an expert in the arts? But the least we can hope for is for you to tap into and develop your skills. You will learn to study and dissect different writing styles, and you will have weekly writing assignments, where you will have to hand in short stories, poems, free-verse, even essays, to enhance your skill-set."

She paused, took a breath, and smiled at us once more. "But for today's class, we'll just concentrate on getting to know each other's writing styles, okay? Do you guys have your manuscripts? The ones you used for your college applications?"

We all nodded. We'd been told to carry our manuscripts to class the day before. People had their tabs and phones out, with their stories opened on the screen. Dutifully, I took out my iPad as well.

"Okay, good. Why don't we read out parts of it? Pick any random part that you like, and read it out for the rest of the class. They'll give their opinions. And if any of you have an idea for the new story you'll be working on this year, you're welcome to share it and receive feedback. Sounds good?" she looked at all of us, and everybody made noises of agreement.

Ivan said, "Do you mind if I begin?" he looked at all of us with a large smile that looked mildly frightening.

Emma, however, didn't seem fazed. "Of course, Ivan. Go ahead."

He nodded and murmured a soft thanks, pressing a button on his tab and clearing his throat. And then, he read out a two-page extract of his short story.

Something about it was very haunting. Maybe it was the way he read it, maybe it was the words he used, but the story shook me. And I didn't seem to be the only one affected by it. Arthur was looking distinctly paler than normal. Ivan's voice in the story was so…sad. But a ghostly, doomed sort of sad. It wasn't angst or grief. His sentences were woven with complete hopelessness. But…but his writing was so  _soothing._  It reminded me of someone dying peacefully in their sleep. It held no energy whatsoever, but instead a sort of restful quiet.

A silence fell upon the class by the time he was done. Arthur stared awkwardly at his feet. Mei tried to discreetly wipe away a tear. Emil was trying not to look anyone in the eye. And I was just gaping at Ivan. Where had that come from? That was not the character voice of a writer who was well-adjusted in any sense of the word. The Russian was smiling to the rest of the class, apparently proud of himself. Well, he should have been. His extract had been phenomenal.

It was Emma who finally broke the silence. "That was…that was lovely, Ivan, thank you." She gave him an encouraging smile, and then said, "Does anyone have anything to say about that?"

I gingerly raised a hand. Everybody turned to look at me.

"Yes, Antonio?" Emma asked.

To Ivan, I said, "What…what inspired that?"

"Oh, this and that," Ivan replied easily, leaning back against his chair.

"It was…it was really good," I finished lamely.

"Oh, thank you, Antonio!"

"Erm, yes," Arthur finally managed. "It's wonderful. I loved how you brought in a bit of stream-of-consciousness to it. Somehow, I felt like that accentuated the prose. What finesse."

I don't know why, but Arthur's comment made my fists ball up in irritation. Why did he have to use such large, fancy words in his elevated English accent? I bet I was much better than he was, anyway. All of it was just show. Ugh, I couldn't stand him.

"Ooh, thank you!" Ivan smiled even wider.

"Emil, Mei, what do you think?" Emma prompted.

"It made me tear up," Mei laughed, her throat still a little wet from the emotion. "I'd be really interested in reading more of your work, Ivan."

"I liked the darkness," Emil stated simply. "It made me feel really uncomfortable, but in a good way."

"Thank you all," Ivan replied happily.

"Does anyone have any feedback? Anything he can improve on?" Emma asked. Nobody said anything. "Very well. Let's move on. How about…how about you, Arthur?"

Arthur's novel had used the stream-of-consciousness technique too. But it was far faster than Ivan's. But the wording was just as powerful. His writing was very exuberant, kicking with life and vitality that he himself didn't seem to have. There was a lot of ironic, dry humour that made everyone chuckle. I found myself enjoying every word he uttered – and then feeling jealous for it. He was good. He was so good.

But I was better. I was  _better._ I had to be. For the sake of my sanity, I had to be.

When he stopped, seven minutes later, Ivan said, "That was really witty. I love how the main character draws from his experience of losing his car keys to create a grand narrative about destiny. How inventive!"

"Why, thank you," Arthur said. "Although I personally wished it wasn't so grandiose, in hindsight. But I suppose a bit of editing would fix that." He looked at everybody else, as though expecting a response.

He got it.

Mei said, "I agree with Ivan. It was hilarious. But yes, a little grandiose. Also, I felt like the correlation between the main character's relationship problems and that line about the four goldfish didn't really make sense."

Arthur frowned slightly, looked over it again, and said, "Oh, you know what? You might be right. That's one more thing I can work on. Thank you, Mei."

I didn't have an opinion. I was too irritated by this point, and I couldn't trust myself to speak to him, or about him. Mei read her piece next. I thought it was a little flowery, but not in a bad way. There was something rather charming about her description of the village where her characters grew up, and she clearly had an eye for detail. Emil's work, on the other hand, was barren and rather staccato. Everything he wrote burned with a sort of underlying intensity, although at first glance, it seemed rather mundane. It was an interesting technique. I decided I wanted to try it out.

"Your turn, Antonio," Emma suddenly said, breaking me out of my reverie.

"What? Oh." My heart suddenly raced. No way. My story was too stupid. It wouldn't compete here. Not against them. All of them were brilliant. I couldn't, I couldn't – a sudden urge to scratch hit me head on. Calm, calm, Toni, calm down, calm down. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. Anything to dispel the nervous energy. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this. Not yet. My story needed work. It wasn't ready for this yet.

"Antonio?" Emma prompted.

"Right." I winced as my voice shook a little. I turned on my iPad and stared at the page. The scene were Isabel finds out Carlos has been killed. I inhaled deeply. I was happy with this scene. Despite that overly emphatic sentence in the second paragraph, despite that perhaps melodramatic reaction…oh god no, this was terrible. No, no, no, no!

I began reading. My voice was so hesitant, so soft, that Arthur actually had to ask me to speak up. That stressed me out for two reasons – firstly, it was Arthur, and I  _had_ to be better than him, and secondly, because I was too frightened to be any louder.

But I forced myself anyway, stumbling over words and flinching at every single flaw in my story. When I was done, eight nightmarish minutes later, I couldn't even look at anyone in the face. I could just imagine their looks of disgust and mocking amusement.

Mei spoke first, her eyes wide. "You write so passionately."

I put my hands under the desk. I was wearing my stupid jacket, but I used my left hand to stab into the skin of the right. My palms were going to be ruined by the end of this, I could just tell.

"W-what do you mean?" I stammered, and then dug my fingers into my skin  _because_ I'd stammered.

"It's like each sentence has an active volcano strapped to its back," Emil explained. "It's exhaustive. But in a good way. You've only read for less than ten minutes, and I've had such mad emotional reactions that I feel like I've run three miles."

I stabbed myself harder. And then I began to scratch. So hard, so ferociously, that I think I tore some skin. If I'd caused it to bleed, there would be no way to hide it from Francis and Gilbert. I felt sick with worry.

Ivan said, "I agree with both of them. It's very,  _very_ emotionally charged."

"Is that a good thing?" I said in barely a whisper.  _Scratch, scratch, scratch._ God, that hurt. I had broken skin, I was sure of it. The slight dampness on my fingers could only be blood.

"Of course it is," Ivan replied. "I wish I could do that."

Arthur finally said, "They're right. It's very explosive writing. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Although one thing I thought you could work on was the pacing. It moved too quickly for my liking. But maybe that's just a personal preference." He looked to the rest of the group for their opinions. Ivan, Mei, and Emil all shook their heads, and Arthur merely smiled and said, "Then maybe it  _is_  just a personal preference. Sorry, Antonio, my apologies."

But that was it. Arthur had done it.

This was rubbish.

This whole book was rubbish.

Why did I even bother writing it?

This was pointless.

I wanted to die.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

Madeline's 'I dabble' bullshit was exactly that. Bullshit. She gave me a fucking complex. She used a lot of colour, whereas I liked to stick to three or four basic shades in any of my paintings. Whatever those shades were varied with each piece, but I never deviated from them too much. But Maddie's style was much more vibrant. It was visually attractive, of course, but she painted with the sort of surrealism that I'd never been able to manage. I'd tried multiple times, but she was much better at it than I was.

Between her, Yao and Eduard, I felt like a bit of an idiot. But the teacher, Sadik Adnan – he was a big fucking deal in the art world, and we knew it – thought I was pretty decent. He said I painted with a lot of fire. Which made sense, I supposed, because I didn't even know how to sit calmly for one minute. When I told that to Maddie, she snorted.

But it was a lot of fun. To begin with, everyone else had their own styles. Eduard's version of Picasso's Cubism was especially interesting. I didn't bother learning the names of the other people in class, because who the fuck was going to remember so many names? But all of them had something to offer. I was satisfied. This gamble – studying art in a foreign country – seemed to be paying off.

After class, Madeline and I walked down the corridor together. She was telling me about how much she loved using colour. "We live in such a colourful world, don't we? I love highlighting that. Although initially my paintings used to be a bit of an eyesore." She laughed. "But I think I've improved. I think the trick was to manage contrasting and clashing colours better."

"I didn't think it was an eyesore," I told her seriously. "In fact, I think I could learn from your stuff. I mean, you saw my paintings! They weren't as lively, were they?"

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "I thought they were very intense. Focused and intense." She suddenly blushed violently and her eyes went beyond my face. "Oh, Gilbert! What are you doing here?"

"Hello," he said with a wide smirk. Oh  _dio._ "How was class, Maddie?"

"It went really well."

"Awesome. Mine did too!"

I rolled my eyes. "Talk to you later, Madeline," I muttered, waving at her and sticking a finger at Gilbert. I heard their laughter behind me as I turned around the corridor and walked off, my messenger bag swinging against my hips.

I wish I'd seen where I was fucking going. This was an old college, a  _really_ old college. It had all sorts of random steps that came out of nowhere and existed for no apparent reason. I tripped on one of them and fell face-first onto the stone floor, my bag clattering loudly. I heard the sound of glass shattering.

Oh holy fuck. No.

Some idiot came to help me up, but I waved them away with a mad yell, diving for my bag. I had bruise forming on my head and my face fucking  _hurt_ , but right now, I was only concerned about the fact that my paints were –

It had been stupid of me to carry my nice paints with me to class, anyway. I  _knew_ they'd have supplies. I ended up not even needing to open them! But now, the blue and the yellow were broken, leaking all over my bag, my sketchbook, my pencils, mobile phone, tab, and worst of all, my paintings. The original un-scanned hard-copy versions of what I'd sent in for my college application.

"Shit, shit, shit," I cried, jumping to my feet and diving towards the nearest bathroom. Maybe I could still salvage them. Maybe. There had to be some hope left.

I emptied my bag, first dumping the ruined paint bottles into the dustbin. But the original paintings were finished. Blue and yellow spread all over them, and dare I even try washing it off with water…no, I'd end up destroying whatever that hadn't been spoiled yet. My sketchbook was stained too, but luckily none of the stuff in there was badly damaged. I wiped off as much paint as I could from my phone and iPad.

While I was doing this, I almost didn't notice Antonio step out of a bathroom cubicle. But then I saw his reflection in the mirror, and both of us froze. Except, he looked momentarily panicked, and I saw a bunch of crumpled band-aid wrappers in his hand. He dropped them into the dustbin. His right hand was covered with them, and whatever little of his visible skin was bright red.

"What the fuck happened to your hand, bastard?" I asked.

"What happened to your bag?"

"Paint bottles broke. Fucking disaster. I'm trying to salvage whatever I can."

"Oh, I'm sorry! That's terrible. How did that happen?"

"Fucking stairs that come out of nowhere! I mean, why? There was just one elevated step! What purpose does that serve? Seriously! Anyway, my paintings are pretty badly ruined, but I have scanned versions of them, so I guess that'll have to do. What about you?"

"It's good you have scanned copies," Antonio said with a small laugh. "Although you should maybe put some ice on your forehead, I think it might bruise. Oh, here, let me," he said, taking my mobile phone from my hands and drying it on a strip of tissue paper. When my phone suddenly beeped, he said, "I think you have a message." And he thrust it to me. "Anyway, Lovi, see you later!" and he'd waltzed out of the bathroom before I could even say anything in response.

It suddenly occurred to me that he'd avoided my question.

So what exactly had happened to his hand?

* * *

It took me ten more minutes to sort out the shit with my bag. I couldn't decide what was worse – the damage to the paint bottles, or the damage to the paintings? Maybe it was a combination of both. I had to hold everything in my arms as I carried my sopping wet bag around my neck.

And who did I run into, but Gilbert?

"Oh, yeah, I was meaning to talk to you," he told me.

"The fuck? What do you want?" First Antonio, now his idiot friend. Great.

He gave me a sheepish look. "You're not…you're not interested in Maddie, are you?"

"Oh fucking hell," I hissed. "I'm gay, you asswipe. Chill the fuck out."

"You're – oh." And suddenly, a devilish smirk came onto his face. I felt the need to run. "Toni is too." He was completely sneering at me now. And what was worse, I felt like I was on air. Antonio…oh, so this crush…I actually had a  _chance_? When? How? Things like that never just happened to me. There had to be a catch! There always was!

Gilbert noticed my expression. My blush. "Oh, Francis is going to  _love_ this."

"Fuck you! Shut up! That doesn't mean anything!"

"I mean, it's pretty obvious Toni's interested in you," Gilbert continued as though I hadn't said anything. "Why else would he turn us down for you? He never does that. And it's pretty obvious you're into him, too.  _Gott_ , Francis will have a field day. I better tell him." He whipped out his phone, and I clamped a hand down on his wrist.

"Don't you  _dare_ ," I growled.

He blinked at me. "Okay." And then he pocketed my phone. "You're right. I'll tell him in person. He  _is_ my flatmate, after all."

"You fucking dickwad!" I pushed past him, yelling, "Fuck this, I don't have time to waste on you."

I just heard him laughing in a weird way as I stormed off.

(Antonio was interested in me? Really? I mean, I knew I was fucking amazing, but still. That was…that was just hard to believe.  _Antonio_ was interested in  _me_? Holy shit!)

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

" _How was class?"_

"It was fine, Henrique," I answered quietly, my hands clenching around my mobile phone.

" _Just fine?"_

"It was the first day. What do you want me to say?"

" _Toni, are you all right?"_

"Fine! I'm FINE!" I suddenly shouted. "Leave me alone!"

" _Toni, what's wrong? Go on, little bro, you can talk to me."_

"There's nothing to say," I answered tersely. "I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night. That's all."

" _Right."_

"Screw you. I can't talk right now." I cut the call and switched off my phone. I knew he'd call Francis or Gilbert next. His little 'agents'. I loved my brother and my best friends, but I was honestly starting to feel claustrophobic.

I leaned into the back of the couch. I was sprawled on the floor behind the sofa, entirely dependent on the support from that piece of soft furniture. My computer sat open in front of me. The little MS Word icon stared back, just daring me to do it. My arms stung so badly. Both of them. From my shoulders to my wrists. I'd split skin from my hand in class. With only my nails! The band-aids I always kept with me were starting to peel off.

It was raining outside. But then, that wasn't surprising. It had been raining a lot lately. English weather and all that. Layers of epidermis were torn, dead. I should have just plucked it all out, but I didn't have the energy. It took me so much effort to lift my fingers, select the MS Word document and hit right-click.

The drop-down menu appeared, and I saw the delete button.

To delete this novel. I'd spent over a year on it. I'd travelled all over Madrid looking for the best settings, the right descriptions. And now, I was going to get rid of it. What did that mean? Removing every trace of joy I'd ever received typing it out. Destroying Isabel, Carlos, Franco, Hitler, and all the other characters that appeared within the pages.

To hell with it. If it wasn't perfect, I didn't need it in my life.

I scrolled down to the delete button.

And that was when the door opened, and Lovino saw me.

I snapped the laptop shut, pulled my rolled-up jacket sleeves down, and smiled. "Hi, Lovi! Do you need help with the stuff in your hands?"

He looked at me for a very long minute. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but I hope to hell he hadn't noticed anything. Finally, slowly, he said, "Why are you sitting there?"

"It's comfortable."

"You're fucking weird." He took his things to his room. When he came back out, a few minutes later, he said, "Working on your novel again? How's it going? How was class?" He sat next to me, and my heart went to my throat. He was so close. I could smell is cologne. I could see his ears becoming red. He was  _so_ cute. Just looking at him gave me energy.

I opened the laptop slowly. The drop-down menu had disappeared, and with it, the delete button. Out of sight, out of mind. For now, anyway. Lovino took hint, and lifted the laptop easily. He opened the document, scrolled down to where he'd last stopped, and began reading again.

I sat with him in silence, not daring to look at the stupid manuscript.

Instead, I looked at Lovi's face. I watched how his eyes were bright with excitement as they raced through the words on the page. And then I put my head back against the back of the couch and unintentionally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment :3


	5. Beloved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Beloved actually has nothing to do with romance at all, but I thought I should mention this, if I haven't already, that the title of the chapter will be the TITLE of a book that I find appropriate. In that respect, a name like Beloved works perfectly.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of suicide.
> 
> And warnings for possibly OOC Romano because writing him as a confident person is difficult, dammit.

_Beloved – Toni Morrison_

* * *

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." – Lao Tzu

* * *

Two Months Later

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I'd never actually read too much romance. It was a girly thing to read.  _Twilight_ and  _Hunger Games_ shit that was enough to make preteens with self-esteem issues happy. Up until then, I hadn't seriously explored the genre. I'd read a bit of Austen, but only because we had to for school. I'd liked it, but I'd only read  _Pride and Prejudice_. I hadn't appreciated the ending. Liz was such a vivacious girl…and then she ended up falling in love with Darcy, anyway.

I'd felt cheated.

I'd identified with her, I think. Liz was independent, a non-conformist, an intelligent young woman ahead of her times. Not that I was any of those things. But like Elizabeth, I stuck out like a sore thumb. And towards the end…well, she ended up betraying me. I wanted her to be alone, completely self-dependent for the rest of her life. It was how I'd assumed I'd lived. But no, she found Darcy. She fought him every step of the way, but he won her over in the end.

It was silly to think that Antonio of all people made me want to look at  _Pride and Prejudice_ with fresh eyes. But I re-read it in one night. I didn't really feel anything different about it, but then I read  _Sense and Sensibility_  and  _Emma. Jane Eyre_ , too. I didn't stop. I read all the nineteenth century love stories written by nineteenth century icons.

But that didn't answer anything for me.

What was love?

A stupid question. One that made me want to hide under a pillow, embarrassed. I was certainly not naïve enough to think that simple infatuation could morph into burning passion and love in a matter of days. Love, as I understood it, had to be tended to. With conversation, with physical contact, with understanding.

But as the weeks passed, I felt drawn towards Antonio, wanting to talk to him. Wanting to understand exactly what went on behind his magnetic eyes. I began painting a lot of green things in class. Maddie even commented on it, asking why I'd become so obsessed with the colour. I simply told her I was experimenting with the potential of green, although the truth was, I wanted to decipher exactly what shade Antonio's eyes were. They were always so sad. Even when he was laughing, genuinely laughing, there was an undercurrent of grief.

I knew there was something wrong with him. And that, perhaps, drew me in further. He kept scratching himself when he thought no-one was looking. He would even have got away with it if I wasn't his flatmate. But I was an observant person by nature, and Antonio was a terrible liar. And he always ran himself down. Even though he'd let me read his novel, in parts, he'd tell me how bad it was. How many flaws there were.

And nothing I ever said had any effect on him.

I knew what it was like. To belittle yourself. It didn't matter if the whole world was singing your praises. If you didn't see it yourself, it wouldn't matter. It had taken me extreme mental discipline to get myself in order. To stop comparing myself to Feliciano. And even then, sometimes, I stumbled. It wasn't just about Feli being better than me. It was about how any decision he ever made was the better one. If I had pizza and Feli had pasta, well, pasta was the better option and I was an idiot and I should have just died in the womb. That's how I used to feel. It had taken conscious effort to stop thinking like that. And exercise, funnily enough. I had to have my morning run, or the day would inevitably go badly. Even if it was raining outside – and in England, when wasn't it? – I'd go for my run. Alfred would always be there, so I had company, too.

It had taken hard work. It had taken courage. I'd forced myself to open up to new experiences, to make friends with new people. To do things I would never had even dreamed of doing. And it had made me so, so happy.

If only Antonio could do that. I didn't know what was going on in his mind. He'd never open up. But if he ever thought of just  _trying…_ it would help. I knew it would.

The more I thought of it, the more in love I fell. It was ridiculous, really. Feli often teased me about it, because more than half my conversations with him involved Antonio in some way. He clued on eventually. My brother was silly, but he wasn't stupid.

Antonio was funny, in a dumb kind of way. He was extremely attractive. And he was sweet to me. He'd say things about my art, things that nobody had ever said before. About how I was so gifted, so talented, so wonderful. He listened when I told him about Michelangelo and Giotto and El Greco and all the other greats that I borrowed from. He listened when I explained what chiaroscuro was, although I don't think he fully understood. He made me feel valued, which was saying a lot. For me, feeling important was a personal battle. For him, it seemed like a personal  _mission_. He went out of his way to make me happy. It was…it was really, really…Fuck, I didn't even have words.

He would get really tired after class. I'd often find him scratching himself. Or staring listlessly at his computer. He always seemed so damn unhappy with himself!

"I just don't know what to do," I said quietly into the phone one rainy afternoon. I'd just eaten lunch in the dining area with Arthur. Antonio rarely ever sat with Arthur these days. The two of them were always rather formal with each other, and I didn't have a fucking clue why.

" _Ve…you know, fratello, sometimes you just need to get your mind off it."_

"Huh?"

" _Distract him. Make him do something that cheers him up. Even if it's temporary."_

What made Antonio happy? Writing. But that also made him so miserable. In the two months I'd known him, Antonio seemed most depressed when he sat at his computer. He said he loved it, but I wasn't so sure anymore.

"You're no use at all, dammit," I snapped irritably.

" _Ask him out."_

"Oh my god, shut the fuck up."

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I'd never liked exaggerating, because the world didn't exist in extremes. There was always a middle ground. Even in what seemed like the absolute pinnacle of events, there were never extremes.

But right now, I didn't really care about that. I didn't care about exaggerations or hyperbole or any of that.

All I knew was this:

I was living in my own personal hell.

I'd never, ever, ever felt this lonely. If I spoke to my parents, their voices were always wrought with concern for me. Henrique, I knew, often checked up on me through Francis and Gilbert. I knew they were worried, but they weren't treating me like a human being any more. I felt like a circus lion. If I didn't perform the way they wanted me to, I'd upset them. I loved my family to bits, but the way they were treating me now, as though I might just break…I wish I'd never told them about the cutting and scratching.

Francis and Gilbert, too, seemed distant to me. I knew they were always in contact with Henrique. They were loyal to me first, though, so they'd always tell me if he'd called them, and what sort of conversation they'd had with him. Even then, it bothered me that they were doing this. When I told them to stop, Francis told me, "It's not like we want to tattle on you, Antonio. But when was the last time you had a civil conversation with your brother? And it's not like you've stopped scratching or anything. You're not even  _trying._ " That really irritated me! Trying? What did Francis think this was, an examination? I couldn't help it. I had to scratch. If I didn't, I'd end up cutting again. And if there was no outlet, I'd literally lose my mind.

Didn't they have any  _idea_ what it was like? If I wasn't scratching, it was all I could think about. And lately, it had been getting so much worse. I would run my nails down my arms as though I was holding an imaginary blade, just so I could pretend, just for a  _moment_...I couldn't focus on anything. It was so easy for them to be so dismissive. What did they know? What did they know?

Anyway, Francis and Gilbert were involved with their own lives. Their own projects, their own girlfriends. As fond as I was of Jeanne and Madeline, it bugged me how they were always hanging around with Francis and Gilbert. Alfred, too, was always with Arthur. Not that I'd ever been particularly close with Alfred, but he was nice company.

Arthur, however.  _Dios_ , sometimes I wanted to just hit him. I don't know why he got on my nerves so much. But the way I saw it, I was better than Mei and Emil, at par with Arthur, and still had a ways to go before I got as good as Ivan. I loved the challenge, because I knew I could surpass them all. But Arthur was constantly in my way. It had become a full-blown rivalry, and everyone knew it.

We were supposed to work on a new manuscript, writing at least a chapter a week. We had three classes every seven days. Coming up with a new story idea wasn't so hard. I always had at least five or six concepts floating around in my mind, ready to be picked and nurtured. The one I was working now was about a hatter in a small town in Spain. I wanted to somehow weave in Guernica, but I hadn't yet found a way. I knew I would, though. Baby ideas like these were always so easy to work with.

Arthur and I would exchange ideas in class, and somehow innocent critique would turn into near-hostile situations. It didn't help that I'd compare every single one of his ideas or drafts to my stupid irredeemably bad novel. The more I did it, the more I hated it, until all I could see when I opened the document was Arthur Kirkland's sneering face.

I scratched and scratched whenever I got the chance. I fantasized so much about cutting that it almost became an obsession. I was driving myself half-insane with the memory of slicing my skin open with that blade. To feel the pressure, the fire, the sudden shock of blood. Blood was redder than I'd expected it to be. And it didn't clot half as easily as I thought it would. But there was a line. I couldn't cross it. I wouldn't cut myself again. I knew it wouldn't solve any problems. I knew it.

But I still wished. All the time. All the time!

But scratching was safe. It wasn't self-harm. Not when I could argue that I had allergies, rashes, a common itch, maybe the material of my shirt wasn't agreeing with me…people believed that. Well, everyone except Gilbert, Francis did, anyway.

And there were times when I just got so tired, so suddenly. Usually because of that guy, Roderich. I'd become obsessively curious about him. A prodigy? Really? He'd given his first recital when he was five or something. And he was almost a celebrity in the classical instrumental music field. He did a show once in the auditorium, and I sat through the whole thing. By the end of it, my arms were almost bleeding and I was so tired and stressed out that I almost fell asleep in the chair. I don't even know how I was able to stumble back to the apartment.

But then, Lovi shoved me into my room and made me drink some Gatorade and told me some funny stories about Lupa the cat and was able to sit up and laugh again.

How did he do that? Francis and Gilbert had tried similar tactics, but they'd completely failed. At this point, I didn't know how much Lovi suspected, but I knew I couldn't hide this for long. I felt like we'd reached a kind of understanding. He knew something was up with me, and he kept a watchful eye. Meanwhile, I just tried to be as normal as I could. And neither of us would openly speak about it. Because if it came to that, I knew I'd have a breakdown.

I was tiredly flipping through TV channels one evening. It was raining outside, and that was messing with the connection, I think. The screen kept fizzing out into static. But I had a slowly pounding headache from lack of sleep – I'd been brainstorming for the novel, and for the new manuscript I was supposed to work on – and now, all I wanted was to stop feeling so miserable. TV helped, that way. It stopped me from over-thinking.

Later, when we went down to the dining room for dinner, Francis took one look at the food and had a semi-meltdown. He'd been getting more and more irritated and crabby by the day, and for some reason, when he saw the food, he made a face, cursed in French, and told us, "I can't, I just  _can't_! I'm going back to the room to cook some  _actual_ food! Gilbert, Antonio, you can join me if you like."

It was pretty funny. Jeanne was sitting with her friends, so she didn't come with us. Maddie was sitting with Alfred, to pacify him. He thought Gilbert wasn't good for her. Who could blame him?

"Wait, what the fuck do you mean you're going to his room?" Lovino snapped. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" he looked gingerly at Arthur and Alfred, who were making googly eyes at each other, and Maddie, who was trying not to vomit in her plate. We were standing a little bit away from the food line.

"You can come too, of course," Francis said with a smirk. "I'm sure Antonio wouldn't mind."

Why should I have minded? Why was Francis giving me that suggestive look?

_Oh._

I felt my face go warm.

"Oh, yeah," Gilbert said with a smirk that could rival Francis's. "Why don't you come too? Francis is the best cook in the world, anyway."

That made Lovi really mad. "What the  _fuck_? I bet I can cook better than him, and French food is bullshit anyway!"

"Oh  _mon dieu_ ," Francis said dramatically.

"Shut up, you idiot," Lovi snarled.

I said, "Oh come on, Lovi! It'll be fun! It's better than this stuff, anyway. And we're all out of pasta. Of course, I could always make paella, but I don't think we have all the ingredients…"

He glared at me for a long moment, and then said, "What the fuck ever. Fine."

When I grinned widely, he turned red and looked away.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I'd been wishing that Jeanne and Madeline had come with us. I actually felt a little bad for abandoning Maddie with her stupid brother and his stupid boyfriend, seeing as they weren't even paying attention to her. But  _nooo_ , Alfred didn't trust Gilbert. Not that I blamed him; that guy was a bastard. But I also knew Maddie could take care of herself. Once when a bunch of us were outside, some asshole kept trying to hit on her. He didn't understand the meaning of no. So Gilbert, Alfred, and I got all set on punching the shit out of him – except, Maddie beat us to it. Literally. By the end of it, that guy was crying. It was pretty funny.

Anyway, so it was Antonio, Gilbert, Francis, and me. He made some French shit and served it with wine. Wine! It wasn't even allowed! But apparently, he'd somehow smuggled some in. "And if you want some for yourselves," Francis said, "You can always ask me. I'll get it for you." Thanks for the help, moron.

But it was nice to see Antonio so relaxed. Of course, he was always relaxed with these two, but still. I could see scabs and red blotches on his hands. We had classes three days a week, and every time he came back from his, his skin would be littered with those marks. I pretended not to notice, although I think Antonio knew I knew.

I think I must have been staring at him a moment too long, because suddenly, I heard Francis's annoying voice, saying, "Ah, look, he's lost in Toni's eyes!"

"What did you say, asswipe?" I snarled, jumping to my feet so violently that the chair flipped over and the table shook.

Francis didn't look the slightest bit perturbed. Gilbert was laughing. Antonio was looking resolutely into his meal.

"Nothing," Francis sing-songed. "Gilbert asked you who your favourite painter is, but you ignored him because you were staring at Toni. It was pretty funny,  _mon cher_."

"Oh," I said suddenly, interested by the question. "I can't choose. Probably El Greco or Raphael or – wait, what the fuck did you mean 'staring at Toni'?! Why would I fucking do such a thing?"

Antonio glanced up in alarm, but both Gilbert and Francis were beyond hysterical at that point. Gilbert was actually thumping the table with his fist and Francis was smirking at me with a knowing look. It wasn't even that fucking funny.

"Ah,  _l'amour_ ," Francis teased.

"Will you two stop it!" I shouted. "Dammit, Antonio, tell your stupid friends that I don't like you!"

Antonio blinked at me. But before he could even say a word, both Gilbert and Francis had fallen silent. Francis swallowed, looking around the table awkwardly. I suddenly felt a little exposed. Like I'd said something wrong. Antonio was still just looking at me. And then his face split into an awkward smile. "Franny, Gil, knock it off, would you? What's for dessert?"

And Francis jumped to his feet, saying some hurried response in a heavy French accent. Gilbert got up too, and walked over to me. "So, Raphael, huh? My brother, Ludwig, he was asking for an expert opinion on some paintings for a school project. Mind if you could help? Wait, come with me," and before I could argue, he'd clamped a firm hand on my wrist and dragged me into his room.

Gilbert's room was shockingly neat. I'd expected him to have the biggest mess, because he was the loudest and the most obnoxious of the lot, but his bed was neatly made. All his things were either in boxes or on hangers. His desk was so well-dusted that it practically gleamed.

He shut the door behind me, crossed his arms, and all pretence of that bullshit lie he'd just fed me vanished. I glared at him. "So, Raphael," I muttered.

"Yeah. I had to get you in here on some pretext, right? Toni would have become suspicious."

"Right. What the fuck do you want?"

"Listen," he said, and suddenly, his shoulders slumped. The determined expression from earlier vanished, and was replaced with a look of distinct distress. "I think everyone here knows that you have a thing for Antonio, including Antonio himself."

I went violently red. "Shut up!"

"No, you have to listen to me. I know you didn't mean what you said earlier. Or I hope you didn't mean it, anyway. Look…Toni's not…I mean, don't say stuff like that to him. Ever. Even as a joke.  _Ever_. Even if Toni knows you're just kidding around, he might not forget you said it. And it might bother him later on."

I stared at Gilbert now, a cold feeling rising in my chest. He was looking at me very, very seriously. And somehow, with his red eyes, any expression he gave seemed more intense. Now especially.

"So, what is it, then?" I finally asked, leaning against his bedroom door. "Depression? Anxiety?"

Gilbert's jaw dropped. "How do you –"

"He's my flatmate, you dipshit. It's not like I don't notice his arms. Or how hard he is on himself. Or how he gets so tired so suddenly. What happened to him?" Gilbert still didn't say anything, so I went on, "Francis hates it here. Antonio told me himself that Francis only came along to keep him company. And you – you think I don't notice how you hover around Antonio all the time? Both you and Francis…you're so protective of him. And now,  _you_  brought it up. I never asked. So, tell me. What's wrong with Antonio?"

He lowered his eyes. "I can't talk about him behind his back."

"You lied to his face to drag me in here and tell me not to say certain things," I countered coolly. "I think you'd lost that argument before it even began."

"Yeah, well –"

"You're concerned. He's like a brother to you. I get it. I've got a brother too, so I get it. Now, are you going to tell me?"

"I don't know," Gilbert said finally. "But he's been like this since last year. So just…don't be too harsh, okay? You're an asshole, I know, but  _try_."

"Fine," I muttered. "But give him more credit, dammit. He's not made out of glass."

I walked out of the room. The rest of the dinner went pretty smoothly.

* * *

At half past one in the morning, I called Feli. He was asleep, and when he answered, I could hear the rustle of his bed sheets and the yawn in his voice. "Are you free?" I asked him, knowing what a stupid question that was. I just really wanted to hear his voice. I was sitting outside the flat, with my back against the door, my legs spread out into the corridor, and I felt like a complete idiot.

" _Ve…Lovi…wha…what's wrong? It's late…"_

"Yeah, I know, I just…" my voice trailed away. The conversation with Gilbert was still playing on my mind. Whatever Antonio had, how could I possibly hope to deal with it? I wasn't a shrink, dammit! But fuck, I swear I couldn't stop thinking about him. I'd fallen Scott-and-Zelda-Dante-and-Beatrice in love with the guy. Just how good or bad a thing was that?

" _Lovi?"_ he sounded distinctly more awake now. I imagined he was sitting up, the phone glued to his ear, his eyes wide open in concern.  _"Lovi, what's wrong? Talk to me."_

"Antonio," I mumbled at length. "He… _Dio_ , I don't know."

" _Did something happen?"_

"He's not…I mean…" I wished I was a writer. The words would have come easily to me. Right? Because I couldn't decide what I wanted to say. Antonio wasn't…normal? Antonio was perfectly fucking normal. He just got sad sometimes. And stressed out. But then, who didn't? Hell, I was sad and stressed out right now. I didn't even know why I'd called Feli. Maybe I just wanted reassurance.

" _Yes?"_ Feli encouraged.

"He's…uh," I didn't want to use the word 'depressed', because I knew it wasn't a word that should be thrown around lightly. "He's just…he gets really upset sometimes. And he tries to hide it. But I can tell."

" _Oh_. _"_ Feli paused.  _"Why is that, you think?"_

"How the fuck do I know? Maybe he doesn't trust me. But then, why would he? I've only known him two months."

" _You should talk to him about it, then."_

That, I knew, was a terrible idea. "No fucking way. It's not…Okay, you know how you get really upset if there isn't any pasta at home?"

" _Si…"_

"It's not like that. It's – I mean –"

" _I know."_

"Wha – huh?"

" _I get what you mean. It's not like crying over pasta. It's when you get upset but you don't even know why, and you can't stop yourself from being upset, because it's all your fault and you deserve to be upset, anyway, so you just want to be alone in a dark room, hoping that you'd just die."_

"How do you –"

" _Oh come on, fratello. I think we both knew that nonna didn't die naturally in her sleep. Nonno tried to hide it from us, but you and I both saw her take the pills before she ushered us out of the room."_

"Feli, you were supposed to be too fucking young to remember that."

" _Well, I wasn't."_ I heard him sigh, and I winced. Grandma was never an easy topic to bring up with him… _"Antonio won't do that, will he? Promise me he won't do that."_

"I don't think he will," I replied honestly. And we were silent for a few seconds. "Feli," I began again, "I think I love him. And it's scaring me." Saying it out loud felt so strange. And to Feli, of all people, who would find any opportunity to tease me about it. Now, however, he was naturally subdued.

" _Fratello, nonna was happiest when she was with nonno."_

"Yeah, but eventually –"

" _She did that to herself,"_ Feliciano snapped angrily.  _"She shouldn't have! She had a family who loved her! Nobody knew why she did it, but you know how upset she used to get. But she was always so happy with nonno."_ He sighed into the receiver, and I thought he was crying.  _"You won't make Toni feel any better if you're scared of loving him."_

"I suppose…" I paused, listening to Feliciano breathe on the other end. "Besides, he's not at all like  _nonna_. He's not that sad."

" _That's good."_

"Yeah, I know."

" _I really miss her."_

"Me too."

We both sat in silence for almost fifteen minutes, our phones pressed to our ears. I played with my shoelaces, listening for Feliciano's tears. He didn't cry, though. There were moments when I thought he was, but he wasn't crying.

It was Feli who spoke next.

" _You really love him?"_

"Are you going to make me give a sappy confession?"

He laughed.  _"Just be sure you love him completely before you do anything, Lovi. Because if you change your mind, he'll get hurt. He'll get hurt like you wouldn't believe."_

"Yeah, don't worry," I muttered, feeling a blush coming on. "I'm not going to hurt him."

" _Good. I'm happy for you."_

"Shut up, I'm getting embarrassed."

He laughed again.  _"Lovi?"_

"Yeah?"

" _Can I go back to sleep now?"_

I smiled to myself. "Yeah. Thanks. Good night."

" _Buonanotte, Lovi!_ "

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

It was raining really heavily when I found Lovi asleep on the couch, clutching a sofa cushion and a framed photograph. Ay, that couch wasn't a comfortable place to sleep. I knew that from experience. Besides, it was a little strange to see him in his clothes from the night before, since I knew he always went for his run every morning, no matter what the weather was like outside.

But he looked so cute, sleeping there like that! Although he must have been cold. He didn't have a blanket or anything. So I pulled mine off my bed and draped it on him. For a moment I thought he might wake because he moved, frowned, and mumbled something in Italian, but then he settled in and smiled to himself before nodding off again.

Ay,  _dios_. He looked like an angel. Just seeing his face could make me feel light with wonder. It was the sort of face any writer could spend a lifetime trying to describe. I loved how gorgeously angular it was. I loved the way his skin flushed bright red when he was angry or embarrassed. I loved how his golden eyes could sweep across the room. When I looked into them, I could almost see his mind working, all at once noticing every little detail, storing it in to use somewhere in a painting or a sketch. His fingers always had colour on them. No matter how hard he tried to get rid of it, the edges of his nails were always either red or blue or green or whatever hues he'd used that day. Same with his clothes. Almost everything he owned had spots of paint that would stubbornly refuse to leave.

Everything about him was so definitive. You couldn't mistake him for anybody else. He'd just walk into a room, and everybody would know – here was Lovino Vargas. Here he was.

Lovi shifted in his sleep again, and the frame slipped from his grasp and fell to the carpeted floor. It wasn't much of a drop, but I still dived for it. Had the glass broken? Lovi would be so upset if that – oh. The picture. It was with him and his brother, Feliciano, I supposed. And a man who looked too old to be their father, but too young to be their grandfather. Although I did remember Lovi saying that his grandparents had married at a fairly young age. The woman in the picture had glossy black hair, and eyes as intense as Lovi's. She was smiling into the camera, holding a little baby – Feliciano, perhaps. Little Lovi was standing in front of them.

Oh! Lovi wasn't scowling! He was grinning into the camera too! How young was he in this picture? He couldn't have been more than three or four years old.

I carefully placed the picture on the coffee table, smiling to myself. Then I went to the kitchenette to switch the electric kettle on. A few drops of water fell on my palm, and I winced. My skin hurt from the scratching last night. I didn't even know what came over me. I was pretty happy. Eating with Francis and Gilbert was so much fun. I think what Lovi had said got to me, although I knew he was just riled up.

It must have been a confluence of things. I spoke to my parents after the dinner. They'd been worried, since I hadn't called either them or Henrique in a week. They kept treating me as though I was an invalid of some sort! It irritated me so much! And then I got angry because I'd been feeling that way about both Francis and Gilbert, although I knew they meant well, I really did. I just hated feeling so weak.

In that respect, I loved the rivalry with Arthur. We were both working on our own individual story ideas. We had to discuss them in class every week, and get feedback. And we had to have practice sessions where we tried to imitate or modify writing styles. Last week we had to write something in a post-modernist format. It was an interesting exercise. I'd done well, even by my standards, but so had Arthur. So naturally, the battle continued. It kept me on my toes. Even though there were times when I simply couldn't handle the stress of it. Those were the worst, because after class, I'd go to the bathrooms and scratch until the only thing I'd be aware of was the raw burning agony on my skin.

Sometimes, I'd substitute scratching with clutching. I'd dig my fingernails into my skin and twist inwards, almost like I was folding my skin like a duvet. It hurt  _so_ much, but that was the point. Especially since I'd use so much force that my skin would actually become grey for a few minutes as all the blood left it. But it was a good way to vent. Better than cutting, although that would have been ideal. The deep red marks wouldn't go for hours, though, so I had to be careful of when and where I did it. Once Gilbert noticed. He didn't say anything, like Francis would have, but his expression spoke volumes.

Really, when I thought about it, I could bring myself to care. It was my body. I could do what I wanted. Plus, on some level, I knew I'd stopped seeing it as  _my skin_. It somehow seemed like an external thing that I could just scratch or otherwise hurt whenever I felt like. Sort of like it was a sheet of paper I carried around with me and wore over my skeleton. My skin was not a part of my body anymore.

So, even if Gilbert had asked me to stop, I couldn't. It had become compulsive. I  _had_ to scratch. Or hurt myself in  _some_ way. I often fantasized about how nice it would be if I could just get my hands on a blade. If I could just split my skin open with the metallic edge without feeling guilty, without feeling like I'd betrayed the people who cared about me. That sort of thinking was ridiculous, I knew it was. But wouldn't it be just so  _nice_ to use a razor instead? I'd sometimes pretend my nails were knives, and I'd run them down my arms as though they were. The marks would be different, sharper, narrower. Just pretending could make me so happy.

But it wasn't enough. The pain wasn't enough. So then I'd clutch my skin and dig my nails deep and twist and twist until tears sprung from my eyes. And then I'd spend the next few hours just admiring the red circles all over my arms. They just looked so fascinating.

The one thing I didn't need, though, was pity. I was so sick of pity. I just wanted to be left alone. My friends didn't understand, and I didn't expect them to. I had an ambition, and I had to reach it. No matter what. I would never forgive myself if I failed to make it big. So I had to work, I had to improve my writing. I had no choice.

* * *

Lovi woke up fifteen minutes later, by which time I'd already made myself some coffee. He saw that I'd moved the picture frame from his arms. He'd looked momentarily irritated, but then he blushed in that adorable way of his and went to brush. "I slept really late last night," he muttered. He kept fidgeting. "It feels weird to not run."

"You could always go now," I suggested.

"I have class in half an hour, stupid."

"Oh, haha. Maybe later, then."

"Whatever."

* * *

One Week Later

* * *

It was one of those days again. Lovi saw me glugging Gatorade all throughout breakfast in the dining room. Jeanne asked me if I wasn't feeling too well. Maddie checked for a fever. Honestly, though, I wanted to drop my head on the table and pass out. I must have lowered my head anyway, because suddenly, Francis and Gilbert were on either side of me. Francis was trying to get me to eat. I'd barely taken anything on my plate, and I couldn't stomach even that.

"Are you getting the flu,  _cher_?" Francis asked gently, mostly for the benefit of the onlookers. He made a show of trying to check my temperature as well, to which Maddie supplied that I didn't have one.

"Come on, Toni," Gilbert said, sounding a little awkward. He was never good at showing emotion. I'd always thought it was very sweet. "Have a bit of toast."

I didn't want toast. I didn't have the flu. I didn't want them to coddle me. Couldn't they just leave me the hell alone? If I had the energy, I would have carried myself back to bed and stayed there all day. But the thought of navigating my way through this castle of a college was enough to drain me of whatever little strength I had left.

I raised my head, ignoring my protesting muscles. Everything spun for a moment. Alfred was chewing his lower lip, looking at me dubiously. "Dude, you look like crap. Maybe you shouldn't go to class today."

"Yes, rest would be advisable," Arthur said coolly, cutting a boiled egg in half.

It was his voice that made me snap to attention. Arthur didn't seem at all hostile, but something about the way he said it made me want to punch him. I was fine! Fine! And I would show him up in class, too! He caught me glaring at him, because he simply gave me an unperturbed stare and raised his eyebrow. "Did you finish the assignment?" he questioned.

"Of course," I responded, a little too harshly.

"Oh. How did you find it?"

"Easy as hell."  _Not._

He nodded quietly to himself. "Yes, it was pretty simple. An idiot could do it."

"What are you trying to say?" I suddenly snapped, a surge of anger shooting through my body. Much needed adrenaline charged into my blood. I was wide awake and seething.

"Nothing at all," Arthur replied, his tone dismissive. "The assignment was simple. An idiot could do it. Why are you getting so defensive?"

"I'm not getting defensive!"

"Guys, come on, don't fight at the breakfast table," Jeanne said with a sigh. To herself, she added, "Why does this always happen?"

"Toni, man –"

"Yes, Antonio, you  _are_ getting defensive."

"SHUT UP!"

"See what I mean?"

"Artie, come on, leave him alone. He's not well!"

"I'm fine, Alfred!"

"I was just –"

"EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SIT DOWN!" Lovi suddenly shouted, his voice so taut and furious that everybody immediately fell silent. The dining room was completely quiet. Professor Manon was walking swiftly up to us, to try and handle the commotion. The teachers all looked pretty annoyed, but since Professor Manon knew Arthur and I personally, they didn't stop her from trying and diffusing the situation.

She marched up to us with a scowl and said, "Come on, what's the matter? Mr. Vargas, is that sort of language really necessary?"

"They started it," Lovino muttered, pouting slightly as he crossed his arms across his chest and looked away.

"Yes, they did. Arthur, Antonio, what on earth was going on here? You're both nineteen, for heaven's sake! Act like grownups!"

"It was just a minor disagreement, Professor," Arthur said, polite as always. "I'm truly sorry for the disturbance. You're right. We should have been more civilised in sorting it out. My apologies."

Emma's frown lessened slightly. "That's better." She then turned her attention to me, but then her eyes widened. "Goodness, you look ill. What's wrong?" she reached forward, no doubt to check my temperature, and I didn't even have the strength to back away, although I desperately wanted to. I'd slumped onto the table, my heart racing and my breaths coming in pants as the adrenaline left my body. "You don't have a fever…" she muttered as her cold palm touched my forehead. "Still, I think you should take it easy for today."

_Ugh._

"I'm fine, just a little sleepless," I lied, forcing my head up although it was physically killing me. "I'm sorry for the yelling. I don't know what came over me."

"Yes, yes, never mind that right now. Are you sure you can sit for class, Antonio?"

"Yes, Professor. I'm fine. Really."

She didn't look convinced. Gilbert was staring at his feet. Francis was frowning. Lovi, however, was just looking at me, his amber eyes piercing into my very being.

* * *

I wished I had the energy to do  _anything._ If I could just scratch, that would be a huge improvement. But I just sat with my head on the desk as everybody read out their assignments for critique and analysis. When my turn came, Mei offered to read it out for me, but I declined. My tongue felt thick and uncooperative as I stumbled over words. I couldn't even understand what I'd written. Nothing made sense to me.

When I was finally done, Ivan was the first and only person to say anything. "I didn't like that very much. It felt rather contrived."

"I agree," I replied simply.

Arthur assignment, however, was excellent.

* * *

I went straight to my room after that. I slept for what felt like hours, skipping lunch and tea. When I woke up, it was dark outside. I felt better, but not by much. I ate some grapes and listened to music. The lyrics could have been radio static for all I cared. The melody could have been nonexistent. I felt completely empty.

Just then, Lovi unlocked the door and entered the apartment, making me switch off the music to turn and look at him. He was completely soaked, shivering, and was carrying a paper bag. "Hey, bastard," he said, his voice quaking slightly because of the cold, "Look what I got from the French Bastard." And from the bag, he pulled out a bottle of wine. "It's cheap shit, but it'll do. Although I don't think it was necessary to go running around in the rain for this."

For some reason, the first thing I thought of was,  _But we don't have wine glasses!_ It was a sudden, stupid thought, and suddenly, I laughed. "Go dry off. I'll pour it."

I had to make do with our coffee cups. While Lovi was in his room, I poured equal amounts, found some crackers to go with it, and because Lovi was taking so long, I began to move the furniture. Something about the rain outside and the toasty warmth of the room made me want to add to the atmosphere. I pushed the couch and the coffee table to the walls, brought my blanket from my bed and flattened it onto the floor, and put the wine cups and crackers in the middle. I'd have crumbs all over the place, I knew, but who cared? Lovi was back. I felt better already.

When Lovi came out, he stopped in mid-step to survey my handiwork, his eyes wide in surprise. "Well…oh, what the fuck ever," and he tossed something at me. A pack of cards. "Rain and wine makes me want to play Go Fish. We always did that at home."

I patted the spot next to me before pulling out the cards and shuffling them. Meanwhile, he took the coffee/wine cup and said, "This was your best solution to not having any proper glasses?"

"Haha,  _si_."

"Idiot." But he was smiling to himself, shaking his head in amusement.

* * *

We played five games, both of us a little tipsy by the end of it. He won three of them, and then bragged about it for a while. I just laughed. He poured us some more wine. Lovino was just so perfect. I couldn't help but feel enraptured by him. He was just so full of energy, life, things that once used to be a part of me. Things that I'd let go of. I couldn't even remember what it was like to laugh without feeling fetters on my chest. I couldn't even remember what it was like to think without triggering myself. I'd forgotten what unmarred skin looked like.

Lovino, though, was free. He was temperamental, moody, headstrong, perhaps, but he was free.

"What is it?" he asked, because I'd been staring at him silently for so long.

"To live is the rarest thing in the world," I told him, "Most people just exist, that is all."

He blinked at me for a long moment. "Oscar Wilde."

"Haha,  _si._ "

"Everything you can imagine is real."

"Huh?" I asked.

"Pablo Picasso."

"Oh! That's a nice one. Hmm…let me think…Ooh, happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know. Ernest Hemmingway."

"Tsk, that's depressing. Pick something lighter, would you?" Lovino muttered, taking another sip from the cup. His face split into a sneer. "Just how fucking  _pretentious_ are we?" He leaned forward slightly. "Drinking cheap wine, playing cards, quoting the Greats. Just how fucking  _pretentious_!"

"Haha, so true. Your turn, Lovi!"

"Me? Oh, you're going with the depressing one, then? Fucking hell. Fine. Let me think." He paused, playing with the corner of the blanket. "Oh, all right. I love this one. I dream my paintings and I paint my dream – Vincent Van Gogh."

"Oh, lovely." I smiled widely at him. "My turn?"

"Fucking obviously, dumbass."

I drained my wine. "Uh…Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

Lovino scooted towards me. "Shakespeare?"

"Yup!"

"My turn." He finished the last of his wine, tossing his cup roughly to the side. I could see his eyes slightly wide as the alcohol took effect. He leaned even closer to me, his face coming very, very, very close to mine. He barely whispered the words, "We love the things we love for what they are."

I could feel a familiar panicky warmth rising to my chest, my throat. "F-Frost."

"Yes, Robert Frost," he agreed. I knew it was going to happen before he even finished what he was going to say. Lovino was too close, his face only millimetres from mine. "We love," he whispered, "…for what they are…"

And our lips crashed together.


	6. The Goldfinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Trigger warnings for - you know what, you can just go ahead and assume there's going to be a TW for some sort of crap in every chapter.

_The Goldfinch – Donna Tartt_

* * *

"The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience." – Leo Tolstoy,  _War and Peace_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I would have believed last night was all one mad dream, until I opened my eyes and I was on the floor. A mild headache and terrible breath hung on to me. Two cups lay horizontally on the blanket. An empty bottle of wine lay beside them.

And Lovi was in my arms.

I lay there for a long moment, first in shock, then in thought.

I'd never been in love before. There were times when I thought I had, but those turned out to be empty, upturned promises. I didn't even know how to recognise love. I could describe it in a hundred different ways for my stories – through words, through touch, through little things like making each other tea and sharing secrets. But what did I really know? Everything I wrote could be false. What did love taste like? What did it feel like?

Did I love Lovi?

I thought I did. But I honestly didn't know. If only there was some sort of checklist or guidebook to help me understand what I was feeling. But these days, I couldn't recognise one emotion from the other. They were all the same to me, each as grey as the next.

I supposed the first thing I felt was blind joy. What had happened last night had been real. We'd kissed. We'd made out. He told me how he felt about me. I said I felt the same way. Lovino Vargas loved me. I was being loved by Lovino Vargas. He saw me worthy of him.

Next came the panic. He didn't know anything about me, not really. He didn't know I had four tiny white lines on my left shoulder, or three longer ones on my right arm. He didn't know how they got to be there, and once he found out, he'd be disgusted with me. He didn't know that those long, deep marks running from my wrist to my elbow were scratch marks that had become permanent. He didn't know that those darkened bruises had been made by me clutching and twisting my skin.

He didn't know what a mess I was, and the minute he found out, the minute he  _really_ found out, he wouldn't want to have anything to do with me. It was hard enough being my friend – Francis and Gilbert had sacrificed so much just to be here and look after me – but to want to date me? Lovino wouldn't have it.

I sat up suddenly, making Lovi twitch in the movement. It was around seven in the morning. He'd missed his run again. And it was probably my fault, too. Now he'd be fidgety all day. All my fault. I started rubbing my left arm, forcing myself to calm down. It wouldn't work. I moved to get up, to lock myself in the bathroom and scratch to my heart's content. To punish myself for being such a  _problem._

But Lovi's hand swung forward, hitting my shoulder. His eyes were still shut, but he sleepily mumbled, "Where the fuck are you going, bastard? It's cold."

I turned to him, my eyes widening. "Oh, you're awake?"

"Mmgh…" he mumbled. "Sleep with me, you dumb bastard, it's fucking freezing."

I couldn't help but grin to myself, despite everything. Lovi wouldn't have said such a thing if he was properly awake. I looked down at him now. He looked so small in his t-shirt and jeans, his black socked feet lying off the blanket, touching the cold carpeted floor.

It was a good thing neither of us had any classes today.

"I was just going to get a blanket. It  _is_ pretty chilly,  _mi amor,_ " I replied softly, a small smile forming on my lips. My heart was still thudding. I still wanted to scratch. But Lovi was right. It was cold. Despite the radiator, it was freezing. A blanket was definitely needed.

" _Grazie_ ," he muttered, turning to his side.

I took the blanket from his bed and draped it over the both of us. Hugging Lovi, I promptly went back to sleep.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I hadn't planned it, honestly. I asked Francis for the wine because it had been so long since I'd had wine with pasta. He'd just 'on-hon-hon'-ed like the creeper fucker he was and asked me to pay some ridiculous amount for it. And then he ended up buying the cheap stuff anyway. But then when I saw Antonio there…

With the blanket and the crackers and the cards, I just…I hadn't even been that drunk. I didn't  _get_ drunk as a matter of principle. But that quotation game, and…Fuck this. I wasn't going to justify myself anymore. I loved him. It was strange to even keep thinking that, since I abhorred sentimentality of any sort, but it was the truth. I loved him for his stupid eyes and his stupid laugh and his stupid bed-head and all of his  _stupidstupidstupid_ issues.

Initially, I'd wondered if I was living a daydream. What did I think? That just love would make him better? That I could just hug and kiss all his demons away? Sure, in a crappy novel, that was exactly what would happen. But I wasn't naïve. Love could help, maybe. Love always helped. But issues like these never just vanished. They needed to be battled every day, for all they were worth, until  _maybe_ they could be pushed away.  _Maybe_ they could be shrunk. I'd never heard of anyone completely getting over their problems. But it  _was_ possible to rein them in, to control them.

A familiar seed of doubt flit through me. But now, lying on the floor with a mild hangover, hugging him for all I was worth, it was too late to even think about it. I still did, though, and it scared me. Was it a good idea for  _me_ to be in a relationship with someone who had problems? And the very fact that I was even thinking about this…did that make me selfish, or just practical? And was there really a difference in this case?

What if we had a fight? What if things didn't work out? How would Antonio react to that? Was I willing to chain myself to his problems so that I could be with him? Was I even the right person? Me, with my cussing and my sharp tongue, who said hurtful things without thinking about – or meaning – what I was saying? I could be careful, but I didn't want to treat him like glass. I knew he wouldn't like that. Antonio could handle things. Even if it didn't outwardly seem so, I had to believe that. For his sake, more than mine.

I'd never known anyone who had loved someone with problems.

Well, actually, I did.

_Nonno._

But I wasn't going to actually talk to him; that was just insane.

I felt Antonio sit up beside me, and then I felt him move to leave. But I didn't want him to. If he could just lie there and keep me warm for a few more minutes, I could pretend like I was in limbo, like we hadn't leapt off a precipice together last night. When I convinced him to stay, he wrapped us in a blanket.

As Antonio snuggled closer towards me, I made my decision.

I must have made this choice the first time I decided I loved him. But now, any glimmer of doubt had vanished.

I would be with Antonio. His demons could not scare me.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

Francis asked me how last night went, as though he'd planned it himself. And when I told him, both he and Gilbert set off laughing. Gilbert actually hugged me, saying how I was all grown up. Lovi shouted and threatened to hit them. They just laughed harder. Jeanne, too, was very happy. So was Maddie. Arthur seemed indifferent, but Alfred said he'd 'called it'.

"It's not like we fucking announced an engagement," Lovi muttered later, after class.

"They're just happy for us," I laughed. "It's sweet."

He gave me a look of disbelief. "It's sort of embarrassing."

"Aw, Lovi, don't be embarrassed! You're with me now!"

" _That's_ really going to be your argument?" he retorted, but there was a smirk on his face, so I knew he was joking.

And then we had to make a phone call that made Lovi turned an interesting colour of maroon. I could almost see steam billowing out of his ears as he pressed his mobile phone closer to his head, buried his forehead into his palm, and leaned forward on the table.

When he finally pulled the phone away, he said, "This is the most embarrassing conversation I've ever had in my whole  _life_ , I swear to fucking god. Even coming out of the closet was easier than this." He tossed the phone to me. "They want to talk to you."

I stared at the mobile phone and watched him get up. "Wait, where are you going? I need moral support!"

"Fuck your moral support, I'm going to change my name and move to Timbuktu," he snapped, shutting his bedroom door in my face.

I swallowed nervously and picked up the phone. "Uh…hello."

On the other end, I heard two pairs of giggles. Was I on speaker phone?  _Dios mí_ _o._ Someone said,  _"Ve, hi! You must be Antonio! Fratello talks about you all the time. I'm Feliciano! And this is my nonno! Nonno, say hi!"_

_"Hello, son. Lovi told me that the two of you are dating."_

I suddenly understood why Lovi had been so embarrassed. It would have been one thing if his family were strict, but both of them sounded so happy and amused. It made me want to drown my head in a bucket of water.

"Ah… _si_ ," I said slowly. "Um, it's nice to talk to you both. Lovi always says such nice things about you two. And your cat."

" _Veee! He told you about Lupa! Oh, she's right here! Lupa, say hi to Toni! Fratello's going to marry him, so you have to be nice, okay? Haha, she's shy with strangers, so you'll have to work hard to win her over."_

" _I'm sure Lupa will like him. Lupa would like one Lovi approves of, and Antonio sounds like a good kid. Anyway, son, Lovi said you're a writer! We've never had a writer in our family. Just artists and chefs. A writer would be a nice change."_

Oh my god. Were they already thinking about marriage?

"Haha…yes, I write…Um, artists and chefs? That sounds amazing!"

" _Well, Feli's the chef. Lovi's the artist. So, are you working on anything right now? I've heard your college is a pretty good place for creative writing."_

"Um, yes, I'm editing a novel."

" _Wow! You've written a NOVEL? That's amazing, Toni! Can I read it sometime?"_ Feli asked.

And I couldn't say no, although I had no intention of showing anyone that novel. Only Lovi had read it, and that was all I could handle right now. So I just said, "Haha, of course, if it ever gets published." And then I decided I better ask them about their lives, so I added, "So, Feliciano, you cook, huh? That must be fun!"

" _It is! And there's this really cool college for culinary arts that I want to go to. I think it's in France. Although I like Italian food much better."_

"Oh, I think I know which one you're talking about. My friend, Gilbert, his younger brother wants to go there too."

" _Oh, cool! Maybe we might be classmates, haha. That would be such a nice coincidence."_

I tried to picture Feliciano and Ludwig as classmates, friends, and somehow it didn't make sense in my head. Their personalities didn't seem to match at all! But, who could really tell with these things?

" _Ah, anyway, Antonio, it seems I've got a lot of paperwork to finish, so I'd best be going now. But it was wonderful to talk to you. I hope we can meet sometime! Ciao!"_

"Bye…" I said to Lovi's grandfather.

I felt like I'd been taken off speakerphone, because I could hear Feli more clearly.  _"Ve, Lovi really likes you, you know? He keeps talking about you! It's so cute."_

I blushed. "Oh? That's really…I mean, wow, haha. That makes me happy."

" _Aw, really? How cute! I'm trying to get Lupa to say hi, but – ow, Lupa! Bad kitty!"_

"It's okay, it's okay. I'll say hi to Lupa whenever I meet her. I mean, I get pretty shy with strangers too, so I know where she's coming from. And really, who could be stranger than me?"

Feliciano laughed.  _"She's really friendly, once you get to know her. And when you and Lovi get married, I'm sure she'll be ecstatic. Hey, maybe she can be your best man – uh, maybe best cat?"_

Then, from behind me, someone wrenched the phone from my hands. Lovi shouted, "Hey, whatever you're saying, it better not be creepy. Antonio's blushing like a fucking sun-dried tomato, and that's usually my reaction to your shit."

I laughed, but my cheeks were so warm in embarrassment that I couldn't even find a coherent retort to Lovi's statement.

I heard Lovi say, "You told him  _what_? Are you fucking crazy!? Lupa would be a terrible best cat! She can't organise a fucking bachelor's party, you dumbass!"

Ay, what the hell?

"No, I don't think anyone wants a cat orgy for their wedding, least of all me."

 _Lovi, you sound so funny_. I stared at him with my eyes wide.

"You know what, this is a stupid conversation. I'm cutting the phone. Bye."

When he tossed the phone on the table, it skidded across the surface and fell off the edge. Lovino groaned and went to pick it up. "My family is such a pain sometimes."

"Haha, they're cute! Were they serious about that marriage conversation, though?" I watched as he blinked at me.

"Oh, so you  _don't_ want to marry me?"

"What, that's not what I –"

But then Lovi's face split into a massive evil smirk. " _Dio_ , your face! Holy shit!" He came up to me, pulling me into a hug and kissing me. His hands lowered down to my wrists, where I felt him slowly separate my palm from my left arm, quelling the scratching urge right there. "It was just a joke, Antonio," he said softly when he pulled away.

"Not funny, Lovi," I muttered. "I would hate to make you upset."

His eyes softened, and I felt like he was going to say something. But then he just shook his head and muttered, "Dumbass, don't worry about stuff like that."

He laughed to himself as he switched on the electric kettle, and I absently muttered, "Lupa wouldn't be able to organise a bachelor's party, though."

"Unless you're into cat orgies."

"Uh, not really."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

* * *

The weeks past pretty smoothly, which for me was a miracle. Lovi and I hung out all the time. We'd go out after class, to watch movies or just wander around town. We took the Tube to London one weekend and toured the city for a bit. Jeanne's birthday came and went, and all of us got really drunk at one of those pubs. I don't think Francis and Jeanne came back to college with us that night.

I spent a lot of time in the college library. It was situated in one of the towers, and it was really huge. Nine storeys! The books were old, too. I loved checking the little cards in their back covers, just to see who'd issued them last. I actually found a book that hadn't been borrowed since 1921! But mostly I looked for things that could help me improving my writing style. This year was just an introduction to different styles and forms of writing, but next year, things would get serious. I'd asked Professor Manon about it, and she'd said that the focus would be on literary technique, tools, plot devices, things like that. And they'd teach us how to edit, too.

When I'd asked her about stream-of-consciousness and why I couldn't learn how to write it, she'd given me an odd look. "Why do you want to write stream-of-consciousness, Antonio? I've always thought your writing had such incredible structure. I mean, you really know how to play with plot formulae, too."

"But –"

"I mean, if you really want to learn, just read and imitate. But in my personal opinion, I don't see how it would benefit you. Oh, but who knows? Artists can find their inspiration anywhere, can't they?"

But 'artist' was such a big word! It implied so much! I was far more comfortable calling myself a 'writer'. Because I wrote. Even if what I wrote was rubbish. Because it wasn't art. Art was the creation of a point-of-view. Art was time, place, emotion. And I didn't have a point-of-view that was anything but my own. I didn't feel an emotion that nobody had felt before. Nothing about me was that special.

I thought I perhaps had the benefit of unique problems, if one could really call that a 'benefit'. But that turned out to be false too.

It happened after class once. We'd finished early, so I was waiting for Lovi to get done. So I went to the bathroom, and there was Ivan. His sleeves were rolled up as he washed his hands. And…

Honestly, I shouldn't have been surprised.

From the kind of stuff he wrote, it should have been obvious.

But for some reason, I still gaped in abject horror at the deep and countless scars on his arm. Some looked like blade-marks. Others looked like they'd been burnt with a matchstick. There were some scars so large, so deep, that I almost felt he'd carved his flesh out with a knife.

When he saw me, he didn't seem too concerned. He finished washing his hands, wiped them on a roll of tissue, and pulled his sleeves down. "Oh, hi, Toni! I'm so glad I ran into you! I was wondering if you had any ideas for that mystery story we were supposed to write. I mean, I always write short stories, so that wouldn't be a problem for me. But I've never written mystery."

I blinked, a little dazed. "Mystery…uh, um, yeah. I have some ideas. I was, uh, I was thinking of writing a story about a kidnapping."

"Oh, that sounds cool! Maybe I should read some crime fiction. That might give me ideas."

"Yeah, that's a good place to start."

He smiled at me. "Well, I'll see you around!"

"…See you."

As soon as he left, I exhaled loudly, slumping against the bathroom wall and pinching the bridge of my nose. Those scars. So many of them. And I thought  _I_  had problems? Honestly, I didn't even have the right to feel this miserable all the time. I came from a happy family, I had friends, I'd been given every luxury I could possibly want, I had a wonderful boyfriend, I was talented, and I was studying in a privileged institution, doing what I loved to do most – writing. I had no right to feel like this all the time.

Those scars. I wanted them. So much. SO much. If only I had a blade. I'd do it right now. Jolts of nervous energy ran through me at the thought. I knew where I'd do it, too. I had it all planned. My left arm, right at the wrist. I wouldn't try and kill myself, of course. A little above those few critical blood vessels. Five small incisions. I'd miss every major artery and vein, focusing on only one side of my forearm. It would hurt the first few times, but that would be out of shock. As my body got used to it, it would feel more natural. I'd be able to do it more easily. It would still hurt – but in a good way. In a comforting way.

No. Instead, I just had my stupid fingernails. For now, scratching would have to do. I clutching the skin of my hand and twisted, because clutching hurt so much more and left more marks. I let go after a few minutes, and clutched again. I repeated the action two more times, and then replaced with scratching. For that, I had to take off my jacket. My hands were shaking so badly that I fumbled and dropped it to the floor. Who cared if it got dirty or damp? I scratched and scratched, my fingers digging deeper and deeper into me. I suddenly gasped as my skin ripped slightly, forming a small shallow wound. Those kind of injuries made me feel accomplished, but they weren't a patch on those few times I'd cut myself.

The more I thought about cutting, the more I wanted to scratch. I just wanted to get the poison out of my system and onto my arms. Battle scars. Me versus my demons. Although I didn't know who my demons were anymore, and sometimes it just felt like I was fighting myself. If I could give my problems a name and a face, they'd be called Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, and they would look exactly like me.

I sunk to the floor because my legs couldn't support me any longer. I curled up, buried my head in my knees, and sobbed.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

We had the stupidest assignment today. Sadik wanted us to paint something that inspired us. He called it a 'Thank-You Gift to Our Muse'. He said it was important to understand what made us want to paint. "There might come times when you feel like you just can't do it any more, and it's then that you need to know who or what inspired you to be an artist."

I didn't think there was ever a 'eureka' moment that made me realise I wanted to paint. It had always come naturally to me, like breathing.

"I know what you mean," Maddie whispered to me in class. "Painting has always been something I just…did."

Yao didn't have that problem. He set off immediately, painting his backyard with bamboo trees. He loved playing with sunlight and shadows, and dabbled in different shades of green and yellow and black. Eduard, in his personalised version of Cubism, began painting something distorted and sad, something very much like Picasso's  _Guernica_.

"He had an abusive dad," Maddie whispered to me as an explanation.

"Jesus holy fuck," I muttered, and then cringed at the way I'd just sworn with Christ's name. And in front of Maddie, too. "Sorry."

She snorted. "You could write a full book on how to cuss."

"I'll leave the book-writing to Antonio." I sighed in frustration as I stared at the blank canvas in front of me. When had I started to paint? When my parents gave me a set of watercolours and a sketchbook on my fourth birthday. I ended up dropping the box, and the cakes of colour cracked and broke. "I don't think I had a very inspiring start as an artist," I muttered.

"When I was a kid, I ate my paints," Maddie replied.

"Then you have art inside of you."

She snickered.

"But you like to use colour," I said. "How did that happen?"

"Colour makes me happy," she said simply. "I've always hated gloomy and sad things." She looked at me. "What about you? You paint with so much…I don't know, aggression?"

"What?"

"Sorry," she blushed. "What I mean is, your paintings are always so turbulent. It makes me wonder what you're thinking when you paint them."

What was I thinking? I never really paid attention to that. I was always so focused on getting the shades right, depicting the correct expressions…Painting calmed me down. That had always been the case. When  _nonno_ was comparing me to Feli, when I felt like shit about myself, art took care of me. If not for the paints, I would have been a mess.

"I guess I'm just an angry guy," I muttered.

"Oh, rubbish. You're just very emotive. I think that's what you should focus on. What makes you really  _feel_ things? What inspires you to express emotion?"

I blinked at her. I didn't have the words to respond.

Sadik told us we had a week to work on the assignment, so I packed my things in a huff and stepped out of class. "That's weird, Antonio was going to meet me here." I glanced around, but I couldn't spot him through the stream of students pouring out of the classrooms.

"Oh, is that him?" Maddie asked, standing on tip-toe to see above people's heads. "Yup, I see him!" She waved as Antonio approached.

I should have known something was wrong immediately. From his eyes, his red nose, I should have known he'd been crying. But it took me a full three minutes before I finally clued in. And it only occurred to me when I heard him talk. Antonio's voice sounded rough and wet.

"Oh, hi, Maddie. How was class?"

Clue number two was that ghastly forced smile.

"Interesting. A bit challenging, but it was fun!" She grinned at me and then at him, saying, "Anyway, I'm going to go look for Gilbert. See you guys later!"

When she was gone, and the corridor had cleared a bit, I took a good look at him. Antonio's palms were  _ruined._ They were so red and blotchy, and there were band-aids on them. Oh, Antonio,  _why_?

I couldn't ignore this anymore. Maybe it was too soon to confront him, but there was no way I could let this slide. He looked so broken, all his defences down. I just wanted to pull him close and hold him until he stopped hurting.

"What's wrong?" I asked softly.

He regarded me thoughtfully, and I could tell he was torn. He was trying to figure out just how to respond, just how much to reveal. And slowly, haltingly, he said, "Nothing that matters right now. We're going to get late for that movie,  _si_?" His lips parted into a huge smile, and he kissed me. We stayed like that for almost a minute, and when I pulled away, I saw him giving me another one of his stupid fake grins.

I wanted to hit him. Or shout. Or just beg him to tell me what bothered him so much, what triggered him, what could possibly make him this unhappy. But I couldn't do that yet. Somehow I knew it would be too soon, and it would do nothing but damage him further. Right now, I had to play along with his lies.  _He_  would have to open up to  _me_. All I could do was be there, make sure he wasn't doing anything too stupid.

I must have been staring at him fiercely for too long, because he started rubbing his jacketed arm – and he hissed softly in pain. How much had he scratched? Dammit, Antonio. Fucking dammit. "Yeah, we might miss the first fifteen minutes," I said, coming closer to him and taking his hand in mine. I held him lightly, knowing if I put too much pressure, it would hurt him. His skin had become so sensitive.

Even during the movie, he kept trying to scratch. Until finally I held onto his hand and leaned on his shoulder. The physical contact seemed to calm him down. I felt his shoulders relax, anyway. That was good. If there was anything I could do to make him happier, I'd do it. No fucking questions asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had a lot of everything. A funny/fluffy Spamano moment, a depressed!Antonio moment, an antsy Spamano moment. It had Ivan and it had Lovi's initial apprehension, and yeah. This was a rollercoaster to write. XD
> 
> I'd actually thought of Antonio panicking because of the kiss in chapter five, but I can't see him as someone who fears physical intimacy. At least not too much. Antonio trusts other people. He doesn't trust himself, but he trusts other people. More than anything, though, Antonio is a liar. Whereas a depressed!Lovi would go out of his way to push people away, depressed!Antonio won't let them in. Lovi would keep a nine mile distance between everyone he meets, but Antonio would make friends with people, he'd even become good friends with them, but he would hide his pain. Much more than Lovi would, anyway. Lovi disguises his suffering with anger and unpleasantness, but Antonio would hide his with laughter and smiling.
> 
> That's just my interpretation of it, of course. Naturally, you are free to have your own. :)
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for lame-as-hell kiss scenes. I've never been too good with those xD.


	7. Anasi Boys

_Anasi Boys – Neil Gaiman_

* * *

"The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence." ― Sylvia Plath,  _The Bell Jar_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

"Hey, Toni, wait!"

I froze, almost literally. My insides turned cold and I felt my stomach twist. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone, please. I balled my fists, stopping in mid-step, and let out a long, shaky breath to ease my panic.

And slowly, hating myself, I turned. "Haha…yes, Ivan?"

Ivan, who'd followed me as soon as class ended, took quick steps up to me, his eyes wide and excited as he waved his tab in the air. He was the only person I'd been able to focus on in class. Everyone had been critiquing Mei's crime story, but I'd completely zoned out. I kept thinking about what would happen if Ivan were to roll up his sleeves, only a little.

I saw Ivan as a scarred person. A person who self-harmed.

I did not see him as a human being.

Not right now, anyway.

He was smiling at me, oblivious to my torment. Scars, scars, scars. Maybe he had a blade with him. Maybe he'd lend one to me. A part of me wanted to scream at him.  _What are you doing to yourself? Why would you want to hurt yourself?_ But that was so stupidly hypocritical. Another part of me wanted to say,  _I know what it's like. Talk to me. Let's help each other._ And then there was that vicious, evil part of my mind that wanted to ask,  _Did you use a knife? Do you have a specific knife, or just an ordinary one for cooking? Where did you get the blades from? Did you break a razor? Can you show me how to do that without wasting too much time?_

Instead of saying any of those things, I just swallowed.

"What's up…?"

Ivan thrust his tab at me. "Well, you're so good at mystery stories. Your novel about Isabel and Carlos is amazing. Hey, do you have a title for that yet?"

"Not yet," I replied, my heartbeat slowing considerably as I took the tab from him. Books. Novels. Stories. Safe territory. "And that novel isn't crime fiction..."

"No, but it's got a lot of suspense! I was wondering if you could read through my short story and see if it needs improvement? My critique is tomorrow, and I don't feel confident at all!"

I couldn't comprehend the words on the screen. They were like insects crawling over the white space, their inky bodies blurring together in my mind. I glanced at Ivan. "Do you usually feel confident before critiques?"

"Yes," he said with a mischievous grin. "But that's not the case now. And you're  _so_ good. So I was wondering if you could help…? I'd be honoured to get some feedback from you."

My cheeks became warm. "Haha, I'm not  _that_ good."

He blinked at me. "You're being modest."

"No, I'm not. I'm not that good, haha. You're way better."

Ivan shrugged like he didn't care. "Thank you. But will you read it?"

I nodded. "And thank you as well. I'm really touched you think I'm good."

"You're welcome!" he took the tab back. "Let me email it to you, so you can read it whenever you're free. Oh, and maybe I could have your number?"

"Oh, sure, sure."

I gave him my number and he gave me his. He tapped the screen of his tab for a few minutes, and then his face split into another seemingly happy smile. "Okay, I've emailed it to you! Be as harsh as you like, all right? It'll only make me better."

I had no plans on being harsh on him. After every one of my critiques, I'd clutch and scratch and cry. And Ivan was much, much worse. He'd cut himself. Burn himself. I couldn't let that happen. My conscience wouldn't allow it. Besides, I probably wouldn't have anything valuable to say. When it came to writing, Ivan was in a league of his own.

When I got to the dining area, Lovi was sitting there with his sketchbook out in front of him, a geometry box, a lot of pencils, and a resolute frown on his face. Madeline was hovering over his shoulder, pointing at something on the paper in front of him.

"Hi, Lovi!" I said, feeling myself loosen up. I bent down and kissed him on the temple, making him go brilliantly red. Maddie was smiling at us.

"Don't embarrass me in public, dammit," Lovi muttered in greeting as I slid next to him.

"What's all this?" He never usually  _drew_ things. But now, there was clearly a village landscape in the making covering the white page of his sketchbook.

"My worst nightmare," he muttered dramatically, and Madeline rolled her eyes.

"We had to sketch something today, not paint. And Lovino sucked. Really badly. I'm trying to help him right now, because Professor Adnan made him redo the assignment."

"I didn't come here to draw, dammit!" Lovi argued.

"It's  _part_ of it, Lovino. Honestly!"

"And the geometry box…?" I asked.

"That's just because he can't draw a straight line."

"I can!"

"Then why did you need to use your geometry box?"

"Because my hand slipped, dammit!" He glared ferociously at the sketchbook. "Fuck this, seriously."

"You're giving up?" Maddie said, her voice coated with judgement.

"No! I'm going to show that Sadik bastard that I'm perfectly good at sketching! Fuck him! Fuck this!"

"I heard that," Sadik Adnan said coolly as he walked past us, typing on his phone as he did.

The three of us watched him go. All of us wore various expressions of shock. Maddie looked  _mortified_ , because a teacher had overheard Lovino swear at him. Lovi looked  _furious_. The pencil he was holding snapped. And I was just staring at both of them, alternating with watching Professor Adnan's form walking away nonchalantly.

"Uh…" I said slowly. "I'm going to go get something to eat."

"Could you get me one of those lemon tarts?" Maddie asked, her skin going back to its usual paleness.

"Sure. Lovi, do you want something?"

"I want to show that Sadik bastard who's boss."

"Something edible?"

"No."

"Haha, okay. I'll be right back!"

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

Antonio sighed very loudly as he sat on the sofa. It was dark and raining outside, as always, and I was trying to fight off sleep. I couldn't fucking function after I'd eaten dinner, I swear. The apartment was silent; both of us were working. He sat with his feet on the couch, staring at his laptop, and I was putting the finishing touches to my sketch.

"What?" I asked him as I erased a stray pencil mark from the corner of the page.

He didn't answer for a long minute, and then finally said, "This story Ivan asked me to read."

"Yeah?"

"He's a prodigy, Lovi, I swear."

I looked up now, regarding Antonio seriously. He was backing me, so I could only see his shoulders and the mop of his brown hair standing out against the light from the laptop. "You talk as though prodigies pop up from the fucking ground like daisies."

He laughed a little. "No, really. Have a look at this."

I sighed, pushing my chair back and going up to where Antonio was. Taking the laptop from him, I sat on the other end of the couch, putting my feet up. Antonio tickled me with his toes until I gave him a poisonous glare. That, naturally, reduced him to a series of mischievous giggles.

"Do you want me to read this shit or not?" I muttered.

"Okay, okay, sorry, Lovinito."

"Yeah, what the fuck ever." I scrolled up to the top of the four page story.

Well.

Holy fucking shit.

I read it in five minutes flat. My hair was on end. I was feeling chills. My heart was beating out of my fucking body. And there was sweat on my brow.

I glanced up at Antonio, who was nodding at me. "I told you," he almost shouted. "I told you!"

"What the hell is wrong with him?" I asked, noticing how soft and shaky my voice had become. "Is he…depressed?"

Antonio's eyes became narrow. It was an odd expression on him. As though he was just  _daring_ me to continue. "Depressed? No. Why should he be depressed? He's my friend. I'd know if he was depressed."

I stared at him. "Is he?"

"No," Antonio said resolutely. "He's just really talented."

"You were supposed to give him feedback, right? What are you going to say?"

Antonio ran a hand through his hair. "No clue."

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

**Antonio: I read your story.**

_Ivan: Oh! What do you think? It needs improvement, right?_

**Antonio: No! It's wonderful! You give me a complex, haha.**

_Ivan: Oh, really? That's so sweet, thank you :) Although you're a much better writer, Toni._

_Ivan: Your stories move me. It's like you're speaking to me through your stories. You appeal to my soul._

**Antonio: …Um, thank you :)**

**Antonio: I'd say something as nice about you, but honestly, I have no words.**

**Antonio: You are superb. You WILL be a bestselling novelist one day.**

_Ivan: Hmm. We'll see about that :)_

_Ivan: My money is on you._

_Ivan: You will change the world with what you write. And I'm not just saying that._

**Antonio: Ay. I don't know how to respond.**

_Ivan: Haha, should I change the subject?_

**Antonio: SI! :P**

_Ivan: Okay :3_

_Ivan: Ooh, I've made some vatrushka! I'm going to bring some for everybody tomorrow._

**Antonio: What's vatrushka?**

_Ivan: It's like a cake. With a ring of dough and cottage cheese in the middle. And it has raisins and fruit. It's yummy!_

**Antonio: Ooh, delicioso! Can't wait to try it :D**

_Ivan: Yay :3_

_Ivan: Well, I'm going to bed now. See you!_

**Antonio: Good night :)**

* * *

I woke up feeling oddly happy. Weird, because I'd actually fallen asleep on my bed, without Lovi next to me. We hadn't slept together like we usually did. But still. I felt pleased. It was about seven in the morning, and I yawned, pushing myself upright. This felt good. I felt good.

Of course, Lovi was awake and drinking his coffee after his run and shower. He had his nose in a book – again unsurprising – and was completely engrossed in it. From this angle, he was backing me. I grinned to myself.

I crept up behind him and suddenly pounced.

"Loooooovi, good morning!" I threw my hands around him (he cried out in surprise) and kissed his cheek. "Watcha reading?"

"Dammit to hell!" he yelped, turning around sharply with his adorable red cheeks. "Go brush your teeth, idiot."

I laughed. "Yes, yes. I just saw you and I felt so happy."

He smiled. Not very much, but still. The corner of his lips quirked upwards just a little, and I could tell he was pleased. "What the fuck ever," he muttered, pretending not to care as he turned back to his book. "Go brush."

When I freshened up, Lovi had already made my coffee for me. It was sitting on the table with a coaster under it and a cover on top, with him still reading.

" _Gracias_ , Lovi!"

"Yeah. Cool."

"What book is that?" I asked again.

He sighed loudly, finally closing it and looking at me. "I'm not going to be able to focus on anything now, am I?"

"Aw, because you're so enraptured by my obvious Spanish charm?"

He snorted. "No, it's because you're as talkative as a parrot, dammit. And to answer your question, it's  _Catch-22_."

"Oh!"

"I couldn't get through it the first time."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Or the second time. Or the third time. I'm finding it very hard to get through even now."

"Haha, wow," I said with a small grin, taking a sip. "I'm surprised."

He raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck is so surprising?"

"You. You're finding it hard to get through an iconic book. It's odd. You're usually such a book snob!"

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are." I laughed. "You said it yourself. We're both a pair of pretentious people, drinking cheap wine, quoting the Greats, and making out on a blanket with a pack of cards spread out under us and rain pouring outside."

He turned violently red and looked away. I snickered.

"You seem to be in a good mood," he muttered.

"I'm always in a good mood!"

Lovino's expression changed for a fraction of a second, too quick for me to recognise a tangible emotion on his face, before going back to his usual scowl. "What are your plans for the day?"

"Class. And then maybe we can go out! I bored of the same movies and restaurants, though…"

"Me too," he muttered. "We'll figure it out. I'll look online."

"Yay!"

* * *

Without Ivan, there was a gaping hole in the class. But it had been ten minutes, and he hadn't yet shown up. He'd promised to get that vatrushka stuff, right? And we'd scheduled  _his_ critique today. Where was he?

Somehow, I knew.

Emma looked torn between irritation and worry. "It's not like him to just disappear like that. Mei, did he answer his phone?"

Mei shook her head. "Maybe he's sick? I mean, temperatures  _are_  falling. Maybe he has a cold."

"Someone should check on him," Arthur said softly.

"I'll go." I blurted out the words without even thinking about them. Ivan was my friend, but he also triggered me like nothing else could. I was having too good a day to want to hurt myself. Could I not have  _one_ day of happiness? Just  _one_?

But…

I just knew.

I stood slowly. "I'll check on him and let you know."

"All right, Antonio," Emma said. "But hurry. If you're not back here in fifteen minutes, I'm going to start."

That didn't really bother me. Each class was for three hours anyway. Emma checked the roster and found me Ivan's room number.

His room was down a quieter corridor, where the temperature seemed to drop still further, and a natural gloom hung in the air. It was Room 126. I knocked on the door, and then pressed the bell. "Ivan? It's me, Toni." There was no response, and I wasn't even surprised. "Ivan, come on. Everyone's asking about you."

After five minutes of persistent knocking and bell-ringing, the door parted slowly, and Ivan's head peeked out from behind it. As expected, he looked terrible. Pale, sick, with dark lines under his eyes. The bright pink of his lips seemed to stand out against his skin. He looked like a corpse.

"Hey, Toni…" he said in a small, tired voice. "Sorry. I'm not feeling very well right now. Can you come back later?"

I sighed. "I know, I know. I'm here to help. Let me in?" We looked right at each other. His mind was working very, very slowly, I could see that. Things were not computing as well as they should have, so when Ivan gave me a once-over with his blue eyes – that looked oddly purple in the right sort of lighting – I gave him a gentle smile and nodded.

"Okay…" he said, his voice even softer. He pulled the door back and stepped aside for me to enter.

His apartment was neat. Not spotless, like Gilbert's bedroom, but not messy. It looked comfortable and lived in. Ivan was wearing a loose black shirt (long sleeved, of course), and tracks, his customary scarf around his neck as usual. His laptop was on the coffee table, along with a pile of books, a notepad, and a fancy-looking navy blue clicking pen. There was a small plant by the window, a shoe and coat-rack behind the door, and his kitchenette was swept and shiny.

Now that I could see him properly, he looked even worse. And he kept rubbing his arms awkwardly. This was an invasion of his space, an invasion of the secrets in his mind. I pretended not to notice that he was clearly depressed, and had probably been cutting himself just minutes before I'd arrived.

"I had my critique today," he said sadly, lowering my eyes. "But I can't...handle it right now."

"Aw, that's okay. A cold can do that to you."

He looked at me. There was a very complex expression on his face, and he slowly said, " _Da_ , colds are so bad."

"Why don't you lie down?" I asked him. "I'll make you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry…"

"A little bit of soup, come on." I set my bag down on the dining table, unzipped it, and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. I always kept those with me. "Here, drink this. It'll keep your energy up."

He took it from me in slow, languid gestures and read the bottle's wrapper. "Why?"

"It helps me when I'm dep—sick," I quickly corrected. Being around Ivan was stressful. He made me want to hurt myself. But right now, I also wanted to take care of him. There was nothing worse than having to deal with an episode of depression alone, and more often than not, that's what most people ended up doing. I took a soft inhale. "Why don't you lie down on the couch?"  _So that I can see you at all times and make sure you're not doing anything stupid_.

"Why do you have Gatorade in your bag?" he asked me, looking at me with mild, tired suspicion.

Crap.

I chuckled awkwardly. "I have really low immunity, especially in this sort of climate."

"Oh," he said simply, uncapping the bottle. "Are you sure you don't mind, then?"

"Drink away. It'll help. And go lie down on the couch."

"I'm going to my room…"

"Couch, Ivan," I said slowly, adding a smidgen of bite to my tone. Forcing a smile, I added, "I'll make you some tomato soup. And don't worry, let me just text Mei saying you have a cold."

"Couch," he repeated slowly, too tired to really argue. He ambled over and practically fell on it, closing his eyes and throwing an arm over his face. Meanwhile, I texted Mei, and then began opening cupboards. Tomatoes, tomatoes, oh, there.

I took out two, found a chopping board, switched on the electric kettle, and started cooking.

"There's vatruskha in the fridge, if you want," he said softly.

"Oh, cool. Are you drinking the Gatorade?" I asked without turning around.

" _Da_ ," he answered softly, and I heard him take a sip.

"Does your flatmate know you're sick?"

"I don't have a flatmate," he replied simply.

I turned. "Huh?"

He blinked, propping himself up against the couch cushions so he could see me better. "Eduard von Bock? Do you know him?"

"Uh… _si,_  I know  _of_ him. He's Lovi – Lovino's classmate."

"He was my flatmate, but I don't think he liked me very much, because he requested a change in the first week…"

Oh. That couldn't help any self-esteem issues at all.

"But it's okay," Ivan continued, managing a small smile. "I like having my privacy. I can do whatever I want, and nobody asks questions."

"Um, yeah," I muttered. He was right, too. Without Lovi being there all the time, I probably would have cut myself ages ago. I wouldn't have had the strength to resist. I was still struggling, and I could actually feel myself giving in just a little bit every day. Of course, he wasn't talking about that. I knew what he meant. That there was  _nobody to stop him._

I turned back to the soup, and neither of us spoke for a while. Did Ivan suspect anything about me? What was going on in class right now? I'd informed Mei to tell Emma that I was taking care of Ivan, that he was really feeling under the weather, so I didn't have to worry about class.

I expected to find a bunch of blades every time I opened a drawer or cabinet. But there were only normal things. Spoons, plates, utensils. I did find three boxes of matches, though. Those burn marks on his skin…I just stared at the matches for several seconds before putting them back where I found them. I felt like he was watching me, but every time I sneaked a glance, he was always lying on that couch with his eyes closed. It was extremely unnerving.

"Soup's ready!" I said, infusing my voice with as much cheer as I could. "Should I take the vatrushka out?"

"Yes," he responded quietly, forcing himself upright. I felt his eyes follow me as I took out some small dough-like cakes from the fridge. They looked like Danish pastries.

I found bowls and plates, gave him small helpings, and brought it to him. "Here you go."

"Aren't you having any?"

"I am," I assured him, taking my own bowl of soup. "I'm not sure if you like tomatoes, haha. But if you ask me, tomato soup can fix anything."

Ivan smiled weakly at me before taking a spoonful. "It's really good."

"Aw, thanks!"

We ate in silence. Well, I ate. Ivan just spooned the soup a bit, taking small, occasional sips just to keep me happy. He ate the vatruskha a lot more willingly, although he still left more than half of it. To make conversation, I glanced around. My eyes finally found that pretty blue clicking pen on the table between us.

"That's a nice pen."

"Oh? Thank you. It was a birthday present." He smiled slightly at it. "Emil liked it a lot too." Ivan looked next at the small potted plant. "And Arthur would like that, don't you think? Remember he once mentioned he liked gardening?"

"I don't really care much for Arthur, to be honest," I muttered, looking down at my bowl of soup.

Ivan chuckled. "I know. Everyone knows. It's funny."

"Why is it  _funny_?"

"Because if the two of you ever wrote a book together, it would become a modern classic. I feel like your styles will gel perfectly. Everything you write is so impassioned, and everything Arthur writes is dry but electric." But he shook his head with a small laugh. "I get the rivalry, though. Both of you are  _so good_."

"Ha," I muttered, sulking.

"And Mei's always liked this scarf," Ivan went on, brushing it lightly with his fingertips. "She said it was very soft. It is, of course."

I glanced up now. "And what about Emma?" I questioned.

"Vatrushka," he said with a sneaky smile. "I might just give her my secret recipe."

"Well, it's delicious!" I said with a laugh, taking a large bite to prove it. It really was quite good. Even  _Lovi and Francis_ would have liked it…

"Thank you, Toni," he said with a smile. "And you…"

"Me?"

"You're a tricky one. Maybe you could have my coat. Because your cold tolerance makes me laugh," he added with a grin.

I frowned slightly. This conversation was becoming a little weird. "Why do you want to give your things away?"

He shook his head. "Christmas. I usually give people personal gifts on Christmas. I like to decide what to give them beforehand."

"Oh! Wow, that's so nice!"

He smiled once more. "Thank you, I think so too."

"But you really don't have to give me your big coat. I know how much you like it."

"Haha, somehow I don't think that's right for you, anyway. It wouldn't suit you, to begin with. I'll give it a bit of thought."

I sighed happily, leaning against the back of my chair. "I'm so bad at buying gifts. I think I'll do what you're doing."

For a split second, I thought I saw Ivan's eyes flash. Not with anger, but something else. Something gentler. I couldn't put my finger on it. It happened so quickly that I thought I almost imagined it.

"You should give everyone your tomato soup. It's nice and hot, it's personalised, and it's so yummy! You should give it to them in little cans. And sit there with them while they eat it, and chat. That would be really special. Memorable and unique."

"Thank you, Ivan! Haha, if I can't think of anything else, I'll do that."

Ivan managed to finish a bit more soup and vatrushka, which he washed down with some Gatorade. I took the plate from him, and when I turned, he was standing up. He said, "Toni, thank you so much for taking care of me. I feel much better."

He looked a little better too. Lighter. Less corpse-like.

"Aw, no problem. Are you going to sleep now?"

He nodded. "I think you should go, too."

I stared. He was going to cut again. If left alone, that was exactly what he would do. I could see it in his eyes. Hell, if roles were reversed, I'd probably be doing the same exact thing. "But —"

"I'm going to go to bed," Ivan said slowly, "And I think you should get to class now. There's still an hour and a half left to go, right?" Was I imagining it, or was there really a hint of menace in his voice?

Oh  _no_. It was happening. I could feel it. Slowly, slowly. It would take time. But I had to get the hell out of here. Ivan's bout of depression was like a cold: contagious. How was that even possible? I had to get out of this environment. Away from his matchboxes and knives and blades.

"Yes," I said softly. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Thank you so much, Toni."

"No problem. See you!"

I took my bag and dashed out of there as fast as I could. I didn't go back to class, though. I went straight to the apartment, threw myself onto the couch and closed my eyes. My ears were ringing. I was painting for oxygen. There was a slow buzz in my brain, and for some reason, I could feel a headache coming on. Great. Depressed and a migraine.

So much for my 'happy' day.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

The dipshit was nowhere to be found. He wasn't answering his texts, and he wasn't with Ivan, although Arthur told me Antonio had gone to check on him. But when I got back to the flat, I turned the doorknob easily, so it wasn't locked. Antonio was here, then.

He was passed out on the couch, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. I placed a hand on his forehead, and he groaned. "Lovi…don't…migraine…awh crap."

I sighed softly to myself, dimmed the lights, and draped a blanket over him. "You owe me a date, bastard."


	8. Love In Our Time

_Love In Our Time – Vincent Brome_

* * *

"The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places." – Ernest Hemingway,  _A Farewell to Arms_

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

In early November, Antonio and I had to go to the village and buy ourselves more warm clothes. Besides, I'd caught an awful cold because the weather had honestly taken me by surprise. It was fucking horrible. Really, no wonder the English were such sarcastic, irritable people. It certainly explained Arthur, that was for sure. (He wasn't too happy when Antonio told him that.)

What was it about colds? They were literally the least threatening thing you could ever get, but they made you feel like you were fucking terminally ill. Antonio, that bastard, thought it was hilarious. As I was blowing my nose into boxes and boxes of tissue paper and coughing my lungs out, he made me drink  _green tea_ – fucking green tea! – all the while smiling about how I shouldn't go running in the snow if I wasn't wearing the right clothes.

"What the fuck – "  _cough, cough, cough,_  "Is so funny?"  _sneeze._

"Ay,  _mi amor_ , you should probably rest your throat." He grinned at me as he handed me the cup of that offending shit, "I've put honey in it. That should help."

"Like hell I'm going to drink –"  _sneeze, cough, sneeze,_ "Fine, give me that damn shit and wipe that smirk off your face."

Anyway, that passed, thank  _dio._ Another thing to thank god for was that I hadn't seen any scratch marks on Antonio's arms for a while. Of course, that could also mean he'd graduated to cutting, but I didn't want to think about that. (I still searched every inch of the bathroom for loose blades, multiple times. I'd found nothing. But then, there was always the possibility that he'd hid them somewhere in his room.)

I'd managed to find out from careful questioning that his classes had been going well. More than once, his teacher, Emma-something, had said his writing had improved. And more than once, his critical assessment had put him second best in class – second only to Ivan.

"Which I don't mind," he said. "I  _do_ want to surpass him too, but Ivan is excellent. I mean, wow."

Apart from that one conversation, he rarely ever brought up Ivan. Although I found them talking on multiple occasions. He never sat next to Arthur anymore. They only exchanged death-glares.

"It reminds me of England and Spain in their imperial days," I once told him with a laugh.

"Yeah, well, they didn't conquer most of the New World and get lots of gold, so what the hell do the English know about anything?"

With that fierce growl in his voice, I didn't dare contradict him. I really wanted to throw a history book in his face, but honestly, there would have been no point.

Books, though. We read so much. We'd sleep in the same bed, read two separate books, and fall asleep dreaming about them. Antonio always liked to read from a large variety of things. Usually, I did too. But my classes demanded I browsed through Art History stuff. When I was looking for him, I'd always go to the library, where I'd inevitably find Antonio curled into some little hole in the shadows of massive bookshelves, leafing through thick old volumes with a contented smile on his face.

I'd sometimes hide and watch him for a bit. He never usually smiled like that. He looked so carefree.

Once when I was falling asleep, he sat next to me and read Orhan Pamuk's  _The White Castle_  out loud. I pretended to not notice, but his voice had been so gentle and soothing, and I stayed up just to listen to his Spanish accent curl around Pamuk's beautiful sentences.

I knew I was turning into a complete lovesick dumbass, but I really didn't care. When Francis teased me about it, I threatened to kill him, and he grinned cheekily and told me that he hadn't seen Antonio this happy in a long time.

In fact, Antonio even seemed to enjoy talking to his brother these days. I couldn't understand what the problem was between them – though I suspected it was related to Antonio's issues. I'd spoken to his family just as he'd spoken to mine. They were a lot more formal; friendly, but formal. But I really couldn't see what was so wrong with them. Antonio never liked to bring them up much, so I just let it be.

One day, after classes ended, I was sitting with Maddie and Jeanne at the dining area, drinking hot chocolate. There was lots of hot chocolate being served these days – the only reason people were actually eating college food. Jeanne was telling us about a culture festival that the seniors were talking about.

"A friend of mine, Michelle, she's in the Student Council. So she was telling us about how they have this culture festival every year. There's an art exhibition, music, theatre, short films, and they have writing contests, too, although this time they're saying they're going to take short fiction pieces from each creative writing student and get it published as an anthology, to be sold there."

"That sounds really nice," Maddie said, leaning forward slightly in excitement. "When is it happening?"

Jeanne shrugged. "I'm not sure? Michelle said it usually happens a month before the final exams – or final assignment submissions, whatever – in summer. So they can use the college grounds effectively without people dying of hypothermia or something. But it sounds really interesting. The perfect place to debut this biopic thing Gilbert was talking about."

"Oh, yeah, he mentioned that."

"What biopic thing?" I interrupted.

"He wants to make a funny, kid-friendly biopic on Jeanne d'Arc, and he thought I should play Jeanne, since my name is Jeanne." She laughed. "He asked Alfred to help him."

"That's because he wants to get into Alfred's good books," Maddie snorted. "I told him he'd have an easier time trying to tame an anaconda. He said 'challenge accepted'."

"God, I hope that anaconda eats him," I muttered.

Madeline laughed, which was a perfect example of why we were even friends. She loved her darling Gilbert to bits, but didn't mind me saying shit like that.

Our conversation stalled as Arthur sat down next to us. "You won't believe it," he declared simply. "You won't bloody believe it." His eyes were wide and enthusiastic, and he kept shaking his head in apparent wonder.

Jeanne rested her head on her hand. "Try us."

"Our professor managed to convince Berwald Oxenstierna to give a talk!"

Maybe Jeanne and Maddie didn't understand the significance of that, but I blurted out such a long string of swear words that I'd put a fucking sailor to shame. When I was done with my tirade, Maddie quietly asked, "So, who's he?"

"Who's he?" Arthur cried out in distress, throwing his hands up in the air. "Author of  _Swedish Symphony_?  _Sleet_?  _The Small-Town Viking_? Really, Madeline!? Oh bloody hell, he's a Nobel Prize winning novelist!"

"I need an autograph," I declared. "No, wait, can I just sit for the talk?"

"I don't see why not. It's this Saturday. In the auditorium, at eleven o' clock. Mei and Ivan are putting up fliers, so a lot of people will be attending it." Arthur went on, "He's going to talk to us about  _The Importance of Falling_."

"What?" Jeanne asked.

Arthur shrugged. "At first I thought it was a book I hadn't heard of, but that's the title of his talk. The Importance of Falling."

"You writers are so fucking esoteric," I muttered. I knew I was swearing in front of the  _bellas_ , but I'd slipped up so many times over the months that they were used to it. I couldn't help it. Cussing was my thing. It was a way of life.

"Us  _writers_  are esoteric? Please. Have you  _seen_ a painting? It never makes sense!"

"Well, of course it doesn't make sense to you. You're English."

"That explains why you Italians find it so hard to understand literature."

"Fucking dammit – I  _breathe_ literature! And who wrote  _Inferno_? Not an Englishman, let me tell you."

"Lovino, shut up," Jeanne muttered, pressing her forehead on the table as Maddie snickered. "I swear you're as bad as Francis. Leave Arthur alone."

"And you need a girl to stand up and protect you," I teased as Arthur's face went red.

" _Excusez-moi_?" Jeanne was on her feet in an instant, her hands curling on my collar. She lowered her face to my level and glared. "Say that again, bitch."

Madeline was laughing so hard she couldn't even sit straight. Arthur had his phone camera out and was snapping pictures of Jeanne assaulting me.

"N-nothing, dammit," I stammered. "You're a really tough girl, and so you need to protect Arthur, 'cause he's a pussy."

"That word is  _not_ helping your case, you dickhead misogynist."

"Shit, okay, okay, I'm sorry."

"I can't hear you!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Louder!"

"SORRY."

She let go of me, a satisfied smile on her face. "That's better." Maddie was laughing like Gilbert – thumping her fist on the table. Arthur had tears of mirth in his eyes, that asshole. Maddie high-fived Jeanne, who said, "And that's how I keep Francis in line."

"Poor Francis," I muttered sullenly, straightening my shirt. After a moment of listening to them laugh about me, I decided to change the subject. "Where the fuck is Antonio, anyway?" And as soon as the words left my mouth, dread filled me. Where  _was_ Antonio? I hadn't seen him since before class.

Arthur rolled his eyes, as he always did when Antonio was mentioned, and said, "He went back to your flat after class."

"What? Why?"

Maddie was giving me an odd look. "What's wrong, Lovino?"

"Nothing, I just…" my voice trailed away, and I tried to force away the panic I was feeling. "Did he go to work on his book or something?"

"Could be. He seemed pretty determined. But everyone was a little pumped up after today's session. We were all excited about Berwald Oxenstierna's talk."

"Oh." Right, that made sense. Still… I stood up, pushing my cup of hot chocolate away. "Dammit, is he an idiot? I have the keys to the flat." A lie. In fact, unless I asked specifically, Antonio never let me have the keys. "I better go check on him. He's probably sitting outside the door." Slipping one lie after another, I jumped to my feet and darted off.

I didn't know what I expected to find. Antonio bleeding out all over the bathroom floor? Antonio curled up in a ball, sobbing and scratching? Antonio, depressed and asleep on his bed, still wearing his shoes? None of those prospects seemed to work for me. But he'd been doing so well for two weeks now (or so I hoped). A breakdown was bound to happen, right? Oh god, the more I thought about it, the darker my imagination got.

I threw myself at the door, which was actually not locked, and when I charged into the flat, I saw Antonio.

And I gasped.

He was sitting at the dining table, cup of coffee near him, typing up a storm on his laptop with literally the most determined expression I'd ever seen him wear. Oh. Oh. Holy shit, okay. He was fine, he was just fine. When I entered, he glanced up at me, and absently said, "Hi, Lovi," before turning back to his screen.

"You – what – hi," I stammered, gasping for air.

He glanced up now, staring at me over his laptop critically. "Hey, are you all right? Lovi? You look really ruffled." He stood to come close to me, but I charged towards him and pulled him into a hug.

"You're an asshole," I muttered, feeling my panic subsiding as I pressed him closer.

"Ay, I can't breathe! What did I do?"

"Nothing, you're just an asshole," I muttered, letting him go. "So…uh, novel?"

" _Si_!" he said cheerfully, getting back to his laptop.

"Is this the Isabel and Carlos one, or the one about the hatter?"

"Isabel and Carlos," he replied happily. "I've already finished writing the one about the hatter. It was easy. And also boring, which is a bit worrying, but we'll sort it out when it comes to that. I just got inspired to work on this one now. After months! Isn't that great?" he said in a rush. "Oh, you won't believe it. Berwald –"

"Yeah, I know. Arthur told me."

Antonio frowned threateningly. "Oh he did, did he?"

"You're not jealous, are you?" I teased. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders as I leaned forward to peer into the screen, I watched his fingers leave the keyboard and trace my hands.

"You're just so perfect, Lovi. Anyone would want you."

I sighed. "Antonio, perfection doesn't exist. And that's not me talking. Stephen Hawking said that! The scientist? He said perfection is impossible by the laws of physics, for fuck's sake.*"

"I know who he is," Antonio said quietly. "But you're still perfect to me." He took my hands off his shoulders, turned around so he was facing me, and kissed each knuckle.

"I'm perfect to you because you don't mind my flaws," I explained gently. "And I don't mind having flaws. Everyone does."

"You don't," he said in a tone so decisive that I knew arguing was pointless. I bit back a groan of frustration. Antonio, dammit. His obsession with things not being good enough was going to drive him to his fucking grave, seriously. To him, I was perfect, everything I did was perfect, Francis and Gilbert were perfect, Jeanne, Maddie, Alfred, and even  _Arthur_ were all perfect. But he was flawed. Only he was the ugly, imperfect one. And nothing he ever did was good enough in his own eyes.

This sort of thinking was so fucking  _dangerous_ …

Antonio turned back to his computer, and that was all the conversation I managed to get out of him for the next five hours. (He only stopped because his wrists started hurting and his fingers cramped.)

I'd managed to paint some crap for Sadik and his What Inspires You-themed painting  _ages_ ago, but honestly, I'd hated it. I'd only painted that so I could get my grade. It was a picture of Lupa. For fuck's sake, a stupid cat. I ended up getting a pretty bad grade on that assignment, anyway. Sadik had given me a look and asked me, "And just who do you think you're trying to fool?" I'd scowled and said nothing.

But I'd been working on that painting for a while now. Thinking about it. What inspired me? What made me have powerful emotional reactions? Feli, for one. When I was pissed off with him, I could paint up a hurricane. But just thinking about him could make me happy, too. So many of my artworks were realistic pictures of Feli cooking, Feli laughing, Feli playing with Lupa. There were more surrealistic ones where I'd used the amber of his eyes and made a hypnotic whirlpool across the canvas. But that wasn't  _it._ There was more.

I'd painted a landscape image of what the Florence Cathedral would have looked like in the High Renaissance. That whole square, in fact. I painted Michelangelo sculpting something, Raphael painting a Madonna, Leonardo talking to a woman who looked a  _lot_ like Mona Lisa. In the crowded square, I created lots and lots of Greats. Including ones that must have been dead by then. Giotto, Fabriano, Donatello, Pisano, all of them.

I loved Florence.

Florence inspired me too.

And then there was Antonio, whose green eyes had driven me to obsession because I kept trying to get the colour right. It was like they changed in the light, turning slightly gold in the setting sun, or darker, bluer, at night. They were never a static shade of green, and capturing the colour in his eyes had become a personal ambition – not that I would ever tell him, holy fucking god.

I wasn't any closer to finding out what inspired me, but Feli, Florence, and Antonio were three very likely candidates.

* * *

Things went to  _hell_ after that stupid Berwald Oxenstierna talk.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I got the feeling that Mr. Oxenstierna wasn't a very talkative man. He had a heavy accent that I could barely understand unless I really, really concentrated. The auditorium was full. All the creative writing students – even the seniors – were sitting in the front rows, trying to show their enthusiasm. I was sitting with them, and Lovi was right next to me. Gilbert and Alfred hadn't turned up, but Maddie, Francis, and Jeanne were there, sitting a few rows behind us.

Professor Manon and some other professors gave a long introductory speech, and then welcomed him with a lot of celebratory zeal onto the stage. He had a pretty intimidating gaze. I'd been trying to understand what his speech would be about. The importance of falling? That could mean a lot of things.

For a writer, his speech was pretty lacklustre. But then, not everybody was good at talking. He seemed especially hesitant in that department. He talked about falling and then getting up again. To be able to stumble and regain footing, stronger for it. He didn't exaggerate, or dress up his point in flowery language. He gave examples from his own life, from the lives of other great and famous people. He spoke for half-an-hour, and ended his sermon to resounding applause.

As people started filing out of the auditorium in large herds, I heard someone call for me.

"Antonio!" called Professor Manon. "Antonio, could you come over here for a minute?"

I gave Lovi an apologetic glance, and he rolled his eyes, saying, "I'll wait for you outside, okay? Get me his autograph." He thrust a notepad and a pen in my hands.

Professor Manon was standing next to Mr. Oxenstierna at the foot of the stage, and she seemed to be talking to him with excited eyes and lots of hand gestures. When I approached, he looked at me with a very studying gaze.

"Hello," I said, feeling suddenly shy. "I really liked your speech, sir. And I love your books."

He nodded. "Thank you."

Before an awkward silence could fall, Emma said, "I was just telling him about your book. I asked him to go through a few of your assignments earlier today, and he was very impressed. He wanted to speak to you about them."

"W-what? Me?" I stammered, my jaw actually dropping. To think that this man had read my assignments? And he was  _impressed_?

"He actually saw everyone's assignments, but he wanted to talk to you specifically," she said to me, her eyes shining. "Anyway, I'm going to help the other teachers now. I'm sure you'd like to hear what Mr. Oxenstierna has to say." With that, she bid goodbye to him, and smiled at me, before walking off.

"Sir…" I began slowly. "I'm really humbled."

"Ya, well. It was good writing."

Was this really happening? "Thank you so much."

"But I hope you learned something from the talk today, Mr. Carriedo. One thing you could really benefit from is learning some fearlessness."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You're too afraid to fall," he told me simply. "You're terrified of not being the best in the room. It's so obvious through your writing. You're trying so hard, with so much technique, so much flair. Technique and style doesn't make a writer. Telling a story makes a writer. Everything else is secondary. First learn to tell a story. Then you can experiment with technique. Stop being so frightened of failing. It gets in the way of your craft."

I stared at him. The world around me fell away. Numbness. I wasn't sure how the rest of the conversation went. I assumed I must have stuttered something sycophantic and demure, because Emma was back and he was gone, and I was stumbling out of the auditorium, trailing after the last few people. Lovi must have been waiting outside, but I hid in the crowded corridor and escaped. I couldn't let him see me like this.

He'd hated what I'd written. I was a talentless hack. That was what he'd said, basically. My bedroom. Lights switched off. Scratch, scratch. I threw something against a wall. My mobile phone. Broken. Good. I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve anything. I was a failure.

No, I wasn't. He'd said that. I was  _afraid_  of failure.

My computer was on.

I went to it.

Failure? I could handle failure. I could fall. Watch me fall, Berwald. Watch me fucking fall.

I first logged onto my email. Where I'd backed up my novel. Goodbye, Isabel, Carlos. Deleted all the emails with attachments of that story. Plugged in my pen-drive. Deleted Isabel, Carlos. Finally opened the actual document. Ran my eyes through it. Lovingly. Over a year of blood, sweat, tears. Ctrl plus Alt plus Delete.

Story gone.

Novel gone.

Next.

Hatter. Spanish hatter.

Boring story.

Not even backed up.

Ctrl plus Alt plus Delete.

Gone.

Next.

Assignments.

Gone. Gone.

Delete, delete, delete.

Research links. Extracts. Important information. Gone.

Ideas. Plot-lines. Character sketches. Gone.

My lifeline laptop.

Dead.

Every trace of the writer in it.

Gone.

Delete, delete, delete.

Through my computer, I'd deleted myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write more, but this seemed like the perfect place to stop. Antonio's sort of dazed and furious, if that wasn't obvious :) And the thing about his laptop being his lifeline – I was inspired by my own laptop. It has all my original writing. Should anything happen to it, I don't even know what I'd do. Of course, all of it is backed up, so that's my safety net :P
> 
> *This is true. I saw it on a National Geographic show presented by Stephen Hawking himself. Back then, I was going through the worst phase of my inferiority complex, so it did wonders for my self-esteem to know that it's actually not possible for perfection to exist. Even a smooth surface has tiny dents and abrasions that you can only see through a microscope. So never think that someone else is perfect – it's not scientifically possible. Everything and everyone has little imperfections, its little flaws. That's just how it is. That's what makes the world the way it is.


	9. The City of Dreaming Books

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pack your bags, kids. We're going on a feels trip.
> 
> Trigger warnings for mentions of suicide, cutting, and basically any dark shit you can think of.

_The City of Dreaming Books – Walter Moers_

* * *

"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." – C.S. Lewis,  _The Four Loves_

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I must have been leaning against that wall for twenty-five minutes, before the last trickle of students had vacated the corridor, and the auditorium was empty. Had that dumb idiot not noticed me here? It was right opposite the auditorium entrance. A pretty obvious place to wait, right? He'd better have got an autograph, or I was going to flip shit.

The longer I waited, the worse I felt. Where was Antonio? I even watched Professor Manon walk out with Berwald Oxenstierna. I ran up to them. I didn't have my notepad or my pen, so I just hurriedly said, "I'm a  _big_ fan of your books. Especially  _Sleet_ , that one was pure genius!"

Berwald nodded at me. "Thank you."

Fucking hell. Antonio had better taken his autograph. I felt like an idiot, just standing there, staring at him hopefully. So I turned to Professor Manon and added, "Um, have you seen Antonio?"

She looked at me oddly. "Well, I saw him leave."

"Oh." I took a small step back. "Right. Thank you, Professor." To Berwald, I said, "Well, um, nice meeting you, sir. It was a pretty interesting talk."

"Thank you."

As they walked away, I pulled out my phone and sent a hurried text to Antonio.

**Lovino: Dammit, where are you?**

**Lovino: Antonio.**

**Lovino: Antonio, what happened?**

No response. I tried Gilbert and Francis next. Maybe he was with them?

_Francis: Lovino what do u mean u lost toni?_

_ Gilbert: He isn't with me! _

**Lovino: Fucking dammit.**

That bad feeling from the other day was returning. As I walked hurriedly to the flat, I sent messages to Alfred, Jeanne, Maddie, and even Arthur. None of them knew one damn thing. How had he escaped without me noticing him? He must have slipped out between the crowds. What the fuck had happened? Antonio usually insisted that I fucking waited for him. For anything.

When I approached the flat, the door was wide open. Holy shit. Hadn't he shut it? Antonio never left it open like this. I stopped in front of it, feeling a jarring sense of wrongness. "Hey, dammit," I called out nervously, walking into the living room. There was no sign of life. "Antonio, you bastard, what happened?"

His bedroom door was unlocked, thank fucking god.

I turned the knob, and felt weak at the sight.

The first thing that hit me was the darkness. None of the lights were on. The curtains were drawn. And in this sort of dingy November weather, that made the room look extremely gloomy. Next was the regular blinking light of his laptop - except that it had been  _tossed against the wall_. His phone was on the floor next to it, its screen smashed. There was an overwhelming stench of his cologne in the room.

And Antonio.

Oh god, Antonio.

He was laying on his bed, his jacket by his feet, and his arms, oh god. When I switched on the light, he only twitched slightly. But his eyes were shut, and his arms had been so badly mangled they were actually bleeding. Not in little spots here and there, but he'd actually ripped his skin off in four different places. They were shallow wounds. But…he'd done that with only his  _nails_?

"Antonio. Shit." I bolted to his side, avoiding the rain of broken glass on his carpet. Not just his phone and laptop, then. His cologne bottle, too. That certainly explained the smell that hung in the air. His forehead was so cold. For one horrific second, I was taken back to my childhood. Back to  _nonna_ and that fucking bottle of sleeping pills.

But then he inhaled deeply and I almost passed out with relief. Of course he was fine. Hadn't I just seen him twitch? "Antonio, come on, wake up," I begged, shaking his shoulder. "Come on, up you get. This won't do, dammit. We're going to work through this, okay? I promise we'll do it together, but now, you just have to wake up." I knew I was rambling, but I was so fucking  _scared_. In fact, that wasn't even the right word. I was terrified. I thought I knew what it was like to date someone with issues, but this was fucking insane.

He groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. They were red-rimmed and dead. Something inside Antonio had shattered. He looked at me uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before weakly whispering, "Lovi…hey…"

I wanted to throw myself on him and hug him and kiss him and cry.

But there would be time for that later.

Right now, I had to be calm and controlled. I had to handle this. "Hey, can you sit up?"

"Lovi, it's all gone…" he whispered, and his voice broke. He dissolved into tears, sitting upright with sudden energy, before his shoulders slumped and he buried his face into his hands. "It's gone, it's all gone, I deleted it all."

As I listened to him, my chest went cold. "Oh, Antonio, you didn't."

"I deleted everything," he sobbed. "All my stories. Everything. And I even cleared the Recycle Bin."

I just stared at him. What could I say? What could I possibly say to fix the damage that had been done?

"Okay, look, we'll sort it out, I promise we will. Antonio, let's first fix your arms, okay? One thing at a time. Are you listening to me? Let's first fix your arms."

"I'm such a disappointment," he said to himself, eyes turning to the ceiling. "Such a mess. Such a problem. You can do so much better, Lovi."

"Shut the fuck up," I muttered simply, pulling him into a hug. "I decide whether or not I deserve better, and believe it or not, it's you I want." I kissed his head. "I'm going to go get the first-aid, okay? Will you be all right on your own?"

"Mind the floor…there's glass," Antonio replied tiredly, wiping his eyes as more tears spilled from them.

"Don't worry. It'll be fine."

When I returned, Antonio was slumped against his pillow, eyes shut, breathing rapidly. I uncapped a bottle of Gatorade and handed it to him. "Drink. Don't argue, just drink." These sudden, dramatic energy crashes were just not healthy. He could barely even hold the bottle. I had to help him, my hands clasping around his as he took a few small gulps.

When I felt he could manage holding the Gatorade on his own, I started on his arms. When I dabbed an antiseptic lotion-soaked ball of cotton on them, he let out a gasp of pain and wrenched his arm away. I hadn't even touched his wounds yet. But his skin had become so sensitive that it was reacting to everything. "Okay, this might hurt, but it'll help, okay? Just trust me. Do you trust me?" I looked at him.

" _Si…_ "

"Okay. Good. Let me take care of you. Can I take care of you?"

He hesitated. "Lovi…"

"Don't say you're fine, because you're fucking not. Do you trust me enough to let me take care of you, Antonio?"

"I…" he lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry for being the way I am." He coughed and started to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

I had to hug him again, and just hold him for ten minutes until he calmed down enough to stop crying. "Don't apologise for who you are," I whispered into his ear. "Can I help you now? Please?"

I felt him nod, so I kissed his cheek and pulled away. He still gasped when I wiped his skin clean, his lower lip trembling with the effort of not crying out. I tied his wounds with bandages. Overkill, perhaps, but I just wanted to be sure. I kept making him takes sips of Gatorade, while I worked in silence. It was just horrible to have to listen to him cry. To know that there was nothing I could do to make him feel better.

Dammit, Antonio. Why did you have to go and delete your beautiful stories?

When I was done with his arms, I threw the windows open and pulled back the curtains. Sure, it was freezing outside, but I had to get the stale cologne smell out of the room. Next, the electronic shit. I picked up his laptop (thankfully undamaged) and his phone (ruined), and put them on his desk.

"Antonio, just stay put, okay? I'm going to mop up the glass."

It didn't look like he was going to get up and go anywhere, anyway. He simply blinked at me listlessly and nodded without saying anything. I picked up all the large pieces and put them in the dustpan, before swiftly sweeping away the smaller shards and then running a vacuum cleaner over the area.

Antonio was just staring at me.

When I was finally done, I sank into the bed beside him and pulled him close. He lay down with his head on my lap as I ran my fingers through his hair. "I deleted everything," he repeated, somewhat trancelike.

"We'll get it back. I'll take your laptop to Eduard, he's good with computers. He'll restore your stories, okay?"

"No."

"No?"

"It's awful. I'm awful. Lovi, sometimes I just hate myself so much."

"Why?" I looked at him, our eyes meeting. "Antonio, why? Can't you see how amazing you are? How talented you are?"

"I'm not good enough."

"Who told you that?"

"I told me that."

"Oh, hell. Come on." I stopped running my fingers through his hair, my hands on his cheeks. "Antonio, you are talented. You're so, so talented. Why would you  _do_ this to yourself?"

"You want to know what he said? Berwald?"

"Okay."

So he told me. And when he was done, I just stared at him. "Oh, you idiot. Please tell me this is a joke, Antonio. Do you even know what failure  _is_? Do you even understand what he meant when he said the word 'fall'?"

"He said I was scared of failure. Look, Lovi, I've failed. There's nothing to be afraid of now."

"Damn it to hell," I grumbled, rolling my eyes. "Look…Antonio, just…no. You've fallen. You made a mistake when you deleted all your stories, all your years and years of hard work. But that's not failure. You will have failed if you refuse to heal and move on from this."

"So then I won't. I won't write anymore. I'm horrible at it anyway."

"That's not what I mean!" I shouted, and Antonio winced. I bit my bottom lip and lowered my voice. "God. Hell. Shit. What I mean is…look, I just…" I glanced around the room for inspiration. This room, where the walls soaked in his genius ideas, where he must have spent nights pacing and brainstorming. Cream walls coloured with his imagination. They looked so barren now. "Antonio, what inspires you to write?"

"What?" he asked, his throat hoarse. He raised his head just a little and blinked in confusion.

"Why do you write?"

"Because I love it," he responded without missing a beat. "Because it's who I am. It's what I've always done."

"That's not my question. What inspires you to write? What would happen if you didn't write?"

"I would cease to exist," he said simply.

"Don't go all melodramatic on me, Antonio." I gave him a weak glare. "Do you really love it? Do you  _really_ love it?"

"Yes."

"Then will you get back to writing?"

Because if he said no, this battle was already lost.

He was silent. "I'm so bad at it. Berwald said it too."

"He said you were good. He was impressed. And he decided to impart a piece of valuable advice. It's a compliment to your abilities."

"That's what everyone says," Antonio said suddenly, and he pushed away from me, sitting up and looking at me with wide, serious eyes. "Everyone says that. Oh, you're so talented, Toni! Wow, Antonio, you're abnormally gifted! This is brilliant, Toni, I expect great things from you! Oh, Antonio, I can see you winning the Booker! The Nobel! Fuck it, Lovino, I'm  _not_ good enough! Writing is all I have! It's the only thing that makes me special at all, and I'm not good enough! Can't you see that? I have to be what everyone wants me to be! Because if not, I'll just be mediocre, I'll just be  _normal_!" His shoulders shook as he curled into himself, inconsolable.

"Antonio, I –"

"You wouldn't know," he wept. "You have cooking to fall back on. You, you're so together. You're so perfect. And I'm just me. The only thing that makes me worth something, and I'm not even good at it. I deleted everything. It's all gone. Who am I now, Lovino? Nobody. I AM my writing, and I got rid of all of it. I'm normal. I'm mediocre, and I'm normal."

"What's wrong with that?" I asked softly.

"Everything."

"Why?"

"Because nobody ever notices mediocrity."

"And being noticed is important to you?"

He looked up at me, his eyes holding an unhealthy fire. "Being noticed is  _everything_."

"Antonio…why?"

"Because I don't want to be ignored again. I don't want to  _ever_  be ignored again. I want people to know that I exist. That I'm in the room, that I exist. I met Gil and Franny in the second year of high school, but before that…before that…oh god." He moved to scratch, but I slapped his hands away.

"Easy," I said, pulling him close. "Calm down. It's okay. Take your time."

"I was so shy," he softly said. "Unnoticed. It's so horrible when you want to say something and nobody even knows you're there. But then…but then words saved me. Oh, Lovi, words saved me. I'd always been a writer, but when people started noticing me as  _that kid who writes_ …I was suddenly important. And then Gilbert and Francis became my friends, and they were so popular, and I became popular, and…everything would be so easy if I were a prodigy. I wouldn't be so worried about messing up an assignment or a badly written paragraph. I wouldn't have those problems. I'd be perfect."

"Prodigies are just talented, stuck-up bastards," I said. "But they practice too."

"Not really. Not as hard as the rest of us."

"But we have the better stories, right?" This was the only way to get to him. No matter what, Antonio was a writer. He  _lived_ for a good story. "Who sounds cooler, Antonio? Some bratty kid who can play the piano at five-years-old, or the guy who slogs day and night to come up with the right words, the right sentences? Who do you really root for? The lucky little shit, or the poor bastard who has to work his way to the top, fighting tooth and nail?"

He didn't respond, which was a good thing. That meant I was getting through to him. He was trying to find a good argument, but failing. "But Mozart –" he began.

"—Must have been an insufferable little asshole," I countered. When he fell silent again, I sighed. "I know what it's like to hate yourself. Trust me,  _I know_. But I also know that unless you actively start believing that you're worth something, you'll never, ever be happy. No matter how much  _praise_ "—I spat the word out like it was something vile –"You receive, it wouldn't matter. Unless you know how to appreciate yourself."

"There's nothing about me. Nothing worth appreciating."

"Really?" I asked softly, stroking his hair. "Then why would I fall for you?"

He shrugged. "You're blind and stupid?"

"Hey, don't you sass me, bastard."

He chuckled weakly.

"How did it start?"

"Hmm?"

"The scratching. How did that start? Did you read about it, or…?"

Antonio blinked slowly, and his eyes moved to his arms. Bandages, scabs, marks, all of it. "Scratching came to me as an accident. I was really stressed out one day. Nervous. Panicky. It's a horrible feeling. You can't think. You can't breathe. You have so much electric energy coursing through your blood, and so much  _fear_ in your mind…It's a terrible combination, energy and fear. It makes you want to scream, run, attack something. And I was hugging myself. I used to do that – hug myself. Protect myself. It's defensive behaviour. I used to walk with my arms across my chest to protect me from the world. And that day, I was holding myself very tightly. My nails weren't trimmed. And I dug into my skin so hard. The pain. It was very momentary. And I let myself go because it  _hurt_ , and I didn't like that." He paused, glancing up at me for a reaction.

Antonio was hugging himself now, breathing slow, deliberate breaths, as though he was trying to remain calm. I nodded simply, pulling him close to me, making his back lie against my chest. I started to run my hands through his hair. I'd found out long ago that was the best way to make him relax.

I heard him let out a shuddering gasp, and then he continued, "It hurt. A lot. And it left deep impressions on my skin. But it helped me. I was calmer! The nervousness was gone. The next time it happened, I did the same thing. I clutched myself. And when it happened the third time, clutching didn't work. So I began scratching. Just to get rid of the nervousness. That's how it started."

None of us said anything for a moment, but Antonio broke the quiet.

"I'm disgusting."

"Why do you say that?"

"I just am. If I could rip myself out of my body and fly away…"

"That sounds like suicide," I said sharply, and I felt Antonio tense.

"No, not suicide," he said simply. "I have too much to achieve. And after I achieve it, I wouldn't want to kill myself. It'll never come to that. I'm talking about scratching. If I could just scratch and scratch until I somehow got rid of this pathetic body. If I could somehow become someone else…"

"Antonio, that sounds like suicide," I reiterated, my voice becoming louder. "And by the way, even if they name you the next Overlord of Literature, it wouldn't fucking matter if you weren't happy with yourself. And trust me, you won't be. You know why? It's because you'd  _still_ see flaws. It's what your mind is conditioned to do, isn't it? Isn't it? You're too hard on yourself. You need to be able to accept imperfection to be really happy."

He did not reply. Not because he didn't have an argument – I knew he had a hundred ways to counter what I'd just said. It was because he was simply too tired. I sighed.

"The next time you feel like this, Antonio, for the love of  _dio_ , please tell me. Call or text or shout across the fucking college campus if you have to, but just tell me. Don't deal with this on your own. It's not even possible. You need help. That's not a bad thing. Everyone needs help sometimes. But you need someone with you, and I'm here, okay? I'm here."

"I cut myself seven times," he said quietly. "Before. Before I came here."

I sucked in air. "I sort of suspected that."

He laughed tiredly again. "Yeah. Well. It scared me. It scared me because it was so easy. And because it felt so good. And…well, when I told my brother, he told my parents. And they panicked. They almost didn't send me here when I got accepted, because they were scared of what I'd do if I were alone. So Henrique convinced Francis and Gilbert to come along too. And being the saints that those two are, they came. Even Francis, and he hates England." Antonio paused. "Lovi, gods mine, Lovi, do you know how amazing it feels?"

"How amazing what feels?" I asked, my stomach twisting because I already knew the answer.

"Cutting. I mean, scratching is good too. Scratching is immediate relief. You can do it anywhere, and it almost never looks suspicious. Plus, scratch marks don't always stay. I mean, I have a few permanent ones, but nobody would even guess what they are. But cutting…oh god. It's so good. It's so, so, so good."

"Do you want to do it again?" Once more, I knew the answer.

Antonio pushed away from me, and changed his position to face me. I could see an almost manic glint of desperation in his eyes. "All the time.  _All_ the time. It's all I can think about. I dream about it. Of slowly splitting myself open with a sharp object. Blades. I like blades."

I stared at him. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. "Do you have blades?"

"No," he said with a resigned sigh. "I wish. Nothing except for my shaving razor. And you can't get rid of that, because I'd look really strange with a beard, and then you wouldn't want to kiss me."

"Ordinarily, I would have found that funny. But somehow I don't see any humour in this."

"Sorry."

I pulled him close. His face was in the crook of my neck. My voice trembled slightly as I spoke. "I love you too much. You can't fucking do these things to yourself."

"I…" his voice trailed away. "I can't help it. It's just…I mean…I don't even know what triggers me half the time. Sometimes I'm just pissed off with myself. Other times…you know those random little thoughts that float into your head? They're there and they're gone in a matter of seconds? Those. I don't even know what I'm thinking about, but it's too late. I'm scratching." Even as he said it, his fingers started twitching. But since his arms were wrapped around me, he couldn't do anything but clamp them onto the cloth of my shirt.

"It's okay. You're okay. Calm down. Antonio, calm down." But even as I spoke, Antonio suddenly pulled away and let out a small cry, clutching his shoulders and hissing in pain as his irritated skin reacted to the harsh treatment. "Fucking hell, Antonio, stop it." I pulled his arms away, holding onto his palms tightly. "Stop, you'll fuck up the bandages!"

Antonio fell forward into me and spasmed in nervousness. "Please, please, just a little bit. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, Lovi please!"

"No," I said fiercely, although he was starting to scare me. "No. It won't help you."

"It will." He tried to pull his hands away, but he didn't have the energy, and I was holding him too firmly. "Just a little, just a little.  _Por favor_!" and he broke in to wracked sobs. "I hate myself. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You must be so sick of me. I'm sorry for off-loading on you like that." I could feel his panic subside into tears and I slowly let go of his hands.

"Don't be sorry. I'm not sick of you. You can off-load on me any time you want."

I let him cry into me for a bit. That tired him out enough to calm down. When he looked up next, his eyes were slightly unfocused. "I'm so sleepy," he mumbled.

"Then sleep, stupid," I said. "Just sleep. You'll feel so much better when you wake up."

He didn't argue with me. I helped him settle into the pillows, and I draped the blanket over him. I was too scared to let him be alone. So I sat next to him, playing with his hair as he snored softly. I sat there for hours. Then I tried to access his laptop, to see if there was  _anything_ that could be salvaged. But the battery had died. So I had to charge it. When the room became too cold, I shut the windows.

Finally, restless, I made the one phone call I should have made ages ago.

* * *

" _Nonno_?"

" _Lovi? Is that you? Hi! How are you, kid? Wait, do you want to talk to Feli? Should I call him?"_

"No, I…I want to talk to you." I didn't like leaving Antonio alone, not even for a second, but I couldn't risk him overhearing this conversation. So I was sitting in the living room on the couch with my feet curled up under me. "It's about  _nonna_. Sort of."

There was a pause at the other end.  _"Funny. Feli asked me about her not too long ago."_

"Yeah. Well. Um. It must have been difficult. To love someone with depression."

" _Lovino, what's wrong?"_

"It must have been scary at times."

" _What's going on? I can tell that something's happened."_

"Antonio," I said softly. "I won't say depression. That's a big and terrifying word. But, um, yeah. He just…yeah."

" _Oh."_

"I knew pretty early on. But I still wanted to be with him. I still do. I love him. But…"

" _It gets scary at times. And frustrating. Doesn't it?"_

"Fuck yes."

" _Language,"_ he gently reprimanded.  _"There are bad days. And sometimes the bad days come more often. But Lovi, the good ones! Remember how she used to make those elaborate lunches? How she used to organise picnics in the lawn? And that time she made us all go to the zoo. Some of my best memories with her."_

"Yeah. Mine too." I paused, closed my eyes, and asked the question that had been plaguing me for years. "Why did she kill herself?"

" _Because she got sad, and thought nobody cared."_

"We cared."

" _Of course. But that's the thing. Nonna never used to talk about what was bothering her. Almost never. I had to pry it out of her after days and days of questioning. And even then, she'd be very tight-lipped about it. I was stupid enough to think that it was her way of dealing with things. That was what I did wrong."_

"Don't blame yourself."

" _It's hard not to, though. I should have made her open up more. Or talk to someone. Or something. Pain hurts the most when you don't talk about it. You have to open up. You just have to."_

"Us artists," I said bitterly, "We don't open up or anything. We just create art."

" _Art is the human soul,"_ he said with a smile in his voice.  _"But sometimes, it's best to just let another person inside."_

"So, Antonio…"

" _Never, ever let him wallow in his sadness alone, Lovi. Forget depression, anxiety, self-harm and any of that other nonsense. What really kills a person is loneliness. Or the belief that they have nobody. That's what finally makes them do it. Don't ever let that happen to him."_

"Yeah."

" _Good. You're a good kid, Lovi. A responsible, brave kid."_

I wiped a tear. "Thank you."

" _For?"_

"Just…stuff."

I heard him laugh softly.

I spoke to him for a bit. Inane, safe topics. Lupa. Feli. Tomatoes. When he told me how a tomato plant had died, I burst into tears because I was so stressed about Antonio. I blamed my reaction on the dead plant, but both  _nonno_ and I knew it was an act. He just humoured me so that I wouldn't feel even worse. And he let me cry and cry and cry and cry.

When I finally ended the call with him, I crawled back to Antonio and watched him as he slept. And then, drained, I slipped into bed with him, held him tightly, and closed my eyes. But I was still wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was emotional. XD
> 
> If you ever find someone in a state like Antonio is in, don't panic. And don't lose your temper if they tell you they want to hurt themselves. They're already feeling vulnerable, and shouting at someone who's feeling vulnerable has never produced good results. You have to be understanding, even if you don't really understand. If you make them feel like they're admitting to a crime, things will get worse. I say this because I know people whose first reaction to fear is anger. Anger helps people cope with stress and fear, and when they're scared for someone's safety, they tend to get angry with them.
> 
> Also, if you feel like Antonio is feeling, TALK TO SOMEONE. I cannot emphasise this more! Seriously, bottling up emotions like these will not help you. I know it's scary to be upfront with another person. Trust me, I know. But unless you tell someone, you're just going to get worse. A friend, a family member, a teacher, a counsellor, anybody. They might freak out (hopefully they have the sense not to), but as long as you clearly explain how you feel, it'll be okay. Remember, they want to help you. They don't want to see you doing bad things to yourself. They care about you.
> 
> Sorry. I feel like I had to say that, since I know so many people who'd rather suffer in silence – hell, I'm one of them, even though I know it won't help.


	10. Angela's Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really care about how accurate I am about computer terminology/details about how long it takes to restore deleted documents, or if restoration is even possible. *Waves creative licence in the air* Look at it, people. Look at it!
> 
> Also, since I don't live in a cold country and the most 'snow' I have is if I open the freezer of my fridge, I have no idea if it's even possible to run in the snow. Even if the road has generous doses of anti-freeze or whatever. So, once again, *waves creative licence in the air*. Just humour me.
> 
> Random irrelevant note: Robert Frost is one of my favourite poets. Also, I'm not sure how true this is, because I can't find any data to back me up at the moment, but I remember reading a long time ago that Robert Frost used to be pretty insecure about his writing. Anyway, I do hope you shall tolerate my slight indulgence in his poetry in this chapter. It's just that, I can find a lot of links between Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening and Antonio's condition.

_Angela's Ashes – Frank McCourt_

* * *

"I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again." – Robert Frost,  _Birches_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

It was the small things. Always. A silly comment. Cracking an un-funny joke. A piece of clothing that didn't look good. Tripping and falling in an embarrassing way. Small things. Things other people could just dismiss in a second, a day at the most. I'd agonise over them. Thinking up ways in which I could have done things differently. Maybe just kept my mouth shut. Or looked into a mirror before stepping out. Or walking more carefully. Those thoughts would plague me. And then came the what-ifs. What if I'd just said something smarter? What if I'd worn that blue shirt instead? What if I'd walked with more grace?

Questions like that had no answer, and no point. But I still asked them. I asked them until I was red in the face and puffy in the eyes and raw on the skin. I asked them until I wanted to punish myself. I asked them until the edge of a blade looked as inviting as a freshly made bed.

And I asked those questions to myself now, as I lay on the bed with a pounding headache and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

What if I hadn't deleted all my stories? What if Lovi hadn't found me? What if I wasn't such a weak, pathetic loser? I felt horribly empty inside. Worthless. And if Lovi wasn't sleeping with his full weight against my chest, I really would have done it. I would have given in. I would have gone to the kitchen, taken the knife he used to cut tomatoes, and cut myself. Five times. Just as I'd dreamed of doing.

The knife would hurt more. The scars would be more pronounced. And honestly, I would have preferred blades instead. But I was feeling so dead, so ruined, I just didn't care. I didn't know what time it was. It must have been early morning, anyway. I could feel the slow inching of time on my fingertips. Like it was some sort of material, cosmic sludge that I could run my hands into, play with, mould and shape. One minute. Two minutes. Three. Four. Five minutes passed.

And Lovi's mobile phone rang.

At first, I didn't move. I was just too stunned by the sudden interruption. And then, as the familiar tune played, I realised. Oh, it was his alarm clock. (I'd never known why he had a tomato alarm and a mobile phone alarm. He claimed he needed both.) It must have been five in the morning.

Lovi stirred, his body more than used to the sound. My eyes were still shut, but I felt him move around in the bed, a sleepy groan escaping him as he fumbled for his phone and turned off the alarm. I felt his weight leave the bed, the soft padding of his footsteps slipping out of my bedroom. I sighed, turned, and tried to go back to sleep. At least that would keep me from thinking. Keep me from feeling like my whole universe had crashed down on me.

I really must have fallen asleep again, because suddenly, Lovi was shaking my shoulder, saying, "Antonio, get up. Now."

"…Huh?"

"Get up. We're going running."

What?

I stretched and opened my eyes, feeling awake but tired. "Running?"

"Yes. Both of us."

"But –"

"No arguments. Get up."

And so I was forced out of bed. I tried not to remember everything that had transpired yesterday. How long had I slept for? I must have fallen asleep in the afternoon, and now it was the next morning. Wow. I brushed and washed my face, still a little confused. Why was Lovi making me run?

When I got out of the bathroom, he was all ready in his warm clothes, his arms crossed and a determined expression on his face. "Wear all your sweaters and shit. We don't have all morning."

"Why?" I asked, wincing at how hoarse I sounded.

"Because running is fun."

We set off into the morning, and it  _wasn't_ pleasant. The weather was bitterly cold. And although the footpath had been scraped clean and littered with anti-freeze, I was terrified of slipping and falling. I saw Alfred in the distance, and he came up to us, looking a little surprised. "Hey, Toni! What are you doing up?"

"We're running together," Lovi coolly said. "Antonio, want to race with Alfred and I?"

"Huh?"

"Race. Up to that lamppost, there. Three, two, one, GO!" and both of them zoomed away, as though they'd been doing this for a long time. Which they probably had been. I hobbled along after them, feeling stupid.

We ran and ran and ran, the three of us. Lovi had to glare a bit to convince me, but I eventually gave in. By the time we were finally done, I was winded and exhausted. Alfred asked me to take off some of my sweaters. The idea was that with too much physical exercise in cold weather, I'd fall sick because of the weird temperatures. I didn't understand much of it, but these two knew what they were doing.

Then we got inside the college again. When Lovi and I got back to our apartment, he asked me to have a shower while he made us some hot chocolate. I obeyed.

The whole thing didn't make much sense to me. It didn't even feel real.

I don't know what happened to me in the shower. I was so drained of emotion, I'd actually been feeling rather blank after the run. I was tired because I wasn't used to the physical exercise, and that coupled with the emotional trauma of last night…Logically, I should have felt empty.

But as the hot water poured over my naked body, making soap suds slip down my chest and down my legs, splay onto the floor like discarded clothing, I tensed, and suddenly started to cry. They were heavy, slow tears that fell one drop at a time. I felt them traverse the curve of my cheek, absently thinking that they felt warmer and crueller than the shower water. I cried and cried and cried. They were quiet sobs. Impossible to hear if you hadn't pressed an ear to the door. And I didn't stop. I cried until I didn't feel human. I cried until there was nothing left of me but a mere shadow, a concept. An  _idea_ of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, whose reality that disappeared somewhere in the water pouring into the drain.

* * *

Lovi gave me a cup of hot chocolate when I stepped out of the bathroom. In my woollen socks and thick sweater, I sat with my legs folded under me at the kitchen table. Lovino had changed his clothes too, but he hadn't had a bath yet. He just sat opposite me, taking small sips of his drink. Funny. We usually had coffee in the mornings together. Why the hot chocolate today?

There was a heavy, horrible silence that hung in the air. Like the quiet that followed a gunshot. It begged to be broken by a sound. Any sound. Some spoken words. A cough. A knock on the door. Anything.

We were both thinking the same thing. We were both remembering our versions of the night before, and I couldn't decide whose experience had been more horrific. Wasn't he going to say something? Lecture me? Give me one of those long, pitying looks that my parents always gave me? What was he waiting for?

I couldn't stand it any longer. The silence was making me too antsy. So I cleared my throat a little. What should I have said? I didn't know. The words seemed just out of reach. So I caught onto wisps of thought, turning them into discernible but ineloquent language. "I'm sorry. For yesterday."

"Stop apologising," Lovino replied softly, staring into his cup. "Would you apologise if you had the flu?"

"Huh?"

"The flu. Would you apologise to me if you fell ill? Would you feel guilty?"

"Um…no? I'd feel bad if I passed it on to you, though."

"Exactly. You wouldn't feel guilty, right?" He sighed and looked at me. "Antonio, it's not like I'm sitting here blaming you for hurting yourself. I'm not sitting here thinking that you're some sort of attention-whore, or that you're not trying hard enough, or that you're just being a melodramatic little shit. That's what people think, isn't it? They think self-harm is like a switch you can flip, every time you want to stop cutting, or scratching, or whatever the fuck. Well, I don't think that. It's not something you actually  _decide_. It's an impulse. It's a disease. Or maybe the better word is  _problem_. Sort of like drug addiction." He paused, waiting for me to contradict him.

I didn't say a word. I couldn't. His upfront behaviour shocked me, although maybe it shouldn't have. After last night, we were going to have to come clean with each other.

"I'd suspected it for a while, anyway. You always had band-aids on your hands. Or red marks."

I swallowed. "It's so weak."

"It's not," he countered. "It's not  _weak._ I won't say it's strong – because it's not that either. In fact, this whole thing about weak and strong…I mean, why the fuck do we even talk about that? Is getting the flu weak? Or strong? Does the flu have some sort of moral element to it? For fuck's sake. Look, my grandmother killed herself. Feli and I  _saw_ her take the pills. She didn't know we were watching, and when she found out, she ushered us out of the room. And what did we know? I was ten. Feli was eight. Old people take medication.  _Nonno_ was out buying groceries or something. He comes back, asks us where  _nonna_ is. We were watching TV for fuck's sake. She was in the bedroom, dying, and we were watching fucking Pokemon." He took a shuddering breath, and I noticed how his fists were balled and shaking slightly.

"Oh, Lovi." I was about to get up to go to him, but he shook his head.

"She had depression. Always did. Ever since she was a teenager. And sometimes she'd just get so tired and upset. And she used to have these marks on her arms. She never wore anything but long, full-sleeved dresses. And when Feli and I saw the marks once when we were really little, you know what she told us? She told us that the demons did those to her. Demons, what demons, we asked. And she said,  _your nonna fights demons and monsters. And sometimes the demons win, and sometimes they lose. It's always a fight. But when it counts, your nonna will always win in the end._ " He shook his head. "Demons. Really! And we thought she was so cool. Wouldn't it be nice to have a grandmother who fights monsters? Other grandmothers just bake fucking cookies and knit sweaters and whatever the shit, but our grandmother fought monsters!" He sighed, lowering his eyes. "She said she'd win, but she lost."

"I won't  _ever_ do that to myself," I said quietly. "I don't want to die."

"No, you better fucking not do that to yourself." He took a long sip of the hot chocolate. "My point is, I understand what depression is all about."

"I don't have clinical depression!"

"Never said you did. You're on the verge of losing, though, Antonio." He looked at me with actual sadness. "It will just get worse. You know and I both know that. We need to stop it before it becomes...before you start...cutting." He paused, looking into his cup. "Scratching is the first step, isn't it?" When I didn't answer, he went on, "The point is, Antonio, you can talk to me, okay? I get it. Also, this thing about not being good enough? Putting so much pressure on yourself to be the best? I get that too. When I was growing up, Feli was always this little saint, and I was just me. I'd try and try and try to be good enough. I'd try cooking, cleaning, managing my money better,  _painting_. All of that. Just to be better than my multi-talented kid brother."

"But you're amazing at painting, Lovi."  _And cooking, too_ , I added as an afterthought.

"Yeah, I'm good at painting  _now._  Feli was always the one with more natural talent. Compare our older paintings, you'll see. The difference was, he liked cooking more, so that was where he focused his energies. And painting was the only thing that made me feel really  _happy._ So that was what I started to practice." His golden eyes pierced through mine. "So when you say you're not good enough…I know how that feels. And trust me, Antonio, the only person whose opinion actually fucking matters is  _yours._ If you want to be good enough,  _you_ have to  _believe_ that you're good enough. Nobody –  _nobody –_ can validate you except yourself. Not Emma Manon, not Berwald Oxenstierna, not Arthur, and not me. Just  _you._ "

"But –"

"And fucking  _hell_ , what was that yesterday?!" Lovino suddenly snapped, showing actual anger for the first time in the conversation. "Antonio, I was  _there,_ okay? I heard that talk, too. Berwald never asked anyone to sit there and delete the fruits of their hard work. He was talking about being brave. Taking risks. Not being afraid of the  _possibility of failure._ The  _possibility_. And even if sometimes shit doesn't work out the way you want it to, to be able to climb back up and get back to it.  _That_ was what he was saying."

He stopped short when he noticed the tears in my eyes. And in a flash, Lovi was off his chair. He stood over me and pulled me close. I buried my face in his stomach. "It's okay," he said softly. "I'm sorry for shouting. It's okay." I felt him kiss my head. "It's okay to cry."

But really, I was devoid of tears. My eyes spilled over for only two minutes before they dried up again. And once more, I was exhausted.

"Lovi?" I mumbled, wiping my eyes as I pulled away.

" _Si_ , Antonio?" he asked gently.

"You're all sweaty." Despite everything, I managed a short laugh.

"You sassy bastard," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Deal the fuck with it. I haven't had a shower yet."

"Why did you make me run today, anyway?"

"That's going to be our thing now," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're going to come running with me."

"But  _whyyyy_?" I whined. I didn't  _want_ to run. It wasn't fun at all.

He looked at me very seriously. "I'm not going to treat you like some fucking breakable little doll, okay? I'm going to tell you the truth. It's because physical exercise actually makes you feel less stressed. Science, bitch. Look it up."

I blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah. Initially, I used to run just to feel calm – less angry at the world. Now it's become a habit, but it really does make me happy. And you're going to do it with me. Anyway, it's not like a little running is going to hurt you. So stop being such a child about it." He suddenly paused, and added, "Antonio, another thing…"

"Yes?"

"Promise me you'll try and rein in the scratching, okay? It's not good for you. Try not to scratch. And absolutely no cutting. Promise me. That shit is addictive."

I stared at him. At his carefully blank expression. He was trying so hard to sound nonchalant, but there was so much obvious worry in his features. Just like mom and dad. Just like Henrique. Just like Gilbert and Francis.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" he frowned.

"Don't treat me like I'm an invalid. I can't stand it. I can't  _stand_ it, Lovino!" I didn't mean to raise my voice; it just happened.

He blinked at me. "I just said I wasn't going to treat you like a breakable doll, didn't I? Look – promise me you'll try not to scratch or cut, and I'll promise you that I won't treat you like you're helpless. Because you're not, anyway."

"I'm not helpless."

"I just fucking said that!"

I took a shuddering intake of breath. "It's difficult, Lovi. I feel like scratching right now." Actually, my hands were on the table, my fingernails digging into the wood in an effort to keep myself from freaking out.

He pulled me close again. "Stop it. I know you can. Just…just try."

"I'm too nervous," I whispered, feeling the panicky energy travel all over my body. It felt like a bolt of lightning running through my system, making me want to curl up and have a seizure.

"Hit the table."

"What?"

"Hit the fucking table. Now."

"But that –"

"Hit the table!"

_Boom._

The noise or force of my balled fist slamming against the wood took even me by surprise. It felt more like an explosion to me. But once I'd started, I couldn't stop.

_Boom._

If anything, I used even more force this time, a tornado of rage channelling out of my system and onto the wooden table. I didn't care about the trembling ceramic cups. I didn't care about the old furniture.

Fuck this. Fuck this. FUCK THIS.

I hit and hit and hit until the side of my hand was red and the hot chocolate had spilled over the edge of the cups and onto the table. I hit and hit and hit until the anger, the fear, was gone. Until there was nothing but a shell-shocked vacuum inside me.

I sat in stunned silence for a second.

"Do you feel any better?"

"I…uh. Yes, actually."

_Yes, actually. Yes. Yes, yes, yes._

For the first time in the longest time, I'd quelled a scratching urge without hurting myself.

Lovino kissed the top of my head. "There you go. See. I told you. You can fucking do it." He paused deliberatively for a moment. "I'm going for a shower, okay? And then I'll take your laptop to Eduard."

I nodded wordlessly, gazing at him. What had a done to deserve someone as wonderful as Lovi?

* * *

Monday

* * *

It was a very difficult class. I lied through my teeth.

"What do you  _mean_ your  _computer crashed_!?" Emma cried, as she and the other writers turned varying degrees of white. It was the worst thing imaginable to any of us. If our computers went, our stories went. If our stories went, so did our will to live, almost. I wasn't even being dramatic about it. Mei had her hand to her mouth and was looking at me with absolute horror.

"Did you have back-ups?" Emil asked. More than once, Emma (and indeed, all the guest speakers we'd had all year), had stressed on the importance of backing up the stories.

"On a memory stick," I replied. It was not a lie – I  _had_ backed up stuff on a pen-drive. And then I'd deleted it. "I'm not sure what happened, but the pen-drive was connected to the laptop and it got infected? I've lost everything." I was starting to hate saying that out loud. I'd deleted my stories. Deleted them. All of them. What had come over me?

"Oh god," Emma said softly. "Oh, I can't even imagine it." She lowered her eyes in what I could only assume was mourning. Almost like I'd told her my grandfather had died or something. "Okay. Well, I think I have your Isabel and Carlos story on my email. I'll check after class, okay? In the mean time, what are you going to do about your computer?"

Eduard had been working on it with no progress.

"Um, a friend's trying to restore everything. I'm not sure it's going to work."

"Oh god," Emma said again. "All right, let me think. Hadn't you completed your story about that hatter? The one about Guernica?"

"Yes. That's gone too."

"That was supposed to be your final assignment for the year, Antonio!"

"I know." I lowered my eyes. I'd avoided emotion thus far, but now, I was starting to feel really upset. I didn't even like that stupid hatter story. But it was still  _my story._ It was a child I'd raised. And I'd deleted it. Why had I done that? Why?

Emma must have seen something on my face, because she said, "Okay, okay, relax. It must be nightmarish for you, I know. We'll sort it out, Antonio." She smiled at me reassuringly. "You were unhappy with that story anyway, weren't you? Can you work on something else? I know it's rather late in the year, but is it possible?"

I'd been thinking about that. There was a story I wanted to tell. I knew it was coming to me. It was hard to describe how this felt. Like a slowly moving feeling of warmth and hopefulness. That was how I knew there was a story idea brewing in the back of my mind. My brain seemed to work quicker, it seemed to sort and file every little detail that it noticed, storing it for later use. I mean, I always did that, but this was more deliberate. I didn't know what this idea  _was_ yet. But it would hit me soon. Of that, I was sure.

"I think so," I answered slowly. "I have an idea brewing. It's too vague right now, but…"

I didn't have to say anymore. The people around me were professional and professional-in-training writers. They knew exactly what I meant.

"All right," Emma replied gently. "Work on it. And I'll check later to see if I have your Isabel and Carlos story on my email. And next time, email your stories to yourself, so that you have copies on the cloud, too."

I nodded and said nothing. I'd deleted even the email attachments. Damn it, Antonio. Really.

Throughout class, Ivan, Mei, Emil, and even  _Arthur_ were shooting sympathetic glances at me, as though I'd lost a family member. But it felt that way. In fact, it felt like I'd personally gone and murdered this 'family member'. It was torture. Especially since they were discussing Hemingway. I could just imagine it. If Hemingway were actually here, he'd probably hit me or something.

Ugh.

After class, I just retreated to the library. It was such a beautiful place. The rustic décor and huge bookshelves made me feel so much calmer. Only words could cushion me right now. Just the understanding that there had been thousands of writers before me, and their setbacks were probably worse.

I found an old book of poems by Robert Frost.

I'd once read somewhere that Frost had always been very insecure about his writing. Robert Frost! Insecure! About his  _writing_! If someone like him could feel that way about his work, then what were my problems, really? I tried to imagine his kindly old face scrunched up in fear and anger, ripping out page after page of his poems, crumpling them into tight paper balls and tossing them into the dustbin, as though his ideas didn't matter.

He also had depression.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

I sat in my usual spot by the window. This particular place was extremely peaceful. Sunlight streamed in, filling the table and chair with a sort of silvery glow. When I looked up, I could see snow and open fields for kilometres on end. Now, with the winter, the undisturbed hush of old books and wooden furniture, one of Robert Frost's most iconic poems, and my own enormously fragile emotional peace, I almost broke down right there.

Everything about this poem spoke to me. Especially that last stanza.

 _The woods are lovely, dark and deep._  Well, that was true. Because right now, sadness felt like a second home. The gloom was comfortable, safe. Where I could remain lost forever. In my own self-pity. I would only get worse and worse, each scratch mark, each bruise from clutching, making me want more. Fantasies about cutting would turn into glorious realities. How long could I fight something that was so seductive, so friendly?

 _But I have promises to keep._ Wasn't it selfish, though? Wasn't it selfish to want to remain stuck in my own sadness? With my family and my friends and my Lovino. All of whom wanted me to become happy again? Besides, anyway, I'd promised I'd try. I'd promised I'd fight this. I wasn't strong enough to – but I'd said I would try. And I hated, hated,  _hated_ being a disappointment. That was all I ever seemed to do. Let people down. I'd let  _myself_ down. God, my stories. Were they in some sort of story-heaven now? A place where all discarded, rejected, ruined pieces of literature went? Would they be happy there, or did they want to come back to me?

 _And miles to go before I sleep._ Again, true. I had so much I wanted to accomplish. And I was so young, too. It was like Frost was talking  _to_ me. Writing  _for_ me. I could almost hear his voice – I imagined it to be gentle and full of empathy – saying, "Antonio, it's okay. It's all right. Forgive yourself."

_And miles to go before I sleep._

I didn't realise when the first tears came, but they slipped down my face and stained the old book of poems. I gasped; usually, I felt them coming. I felt my eyes burning, or my throat stinging. But now, they just flowed. Drop by drop by drop. I pushed the book out of harm's way as I lowered my head on the table, not even bothering to stop the tears. They were silent, except for the occasional shuddering gasp. What was wrong with me? What was happening to me? Why did I feel so  _sad_ all the time?

Just look at me. Crying in a library. It was an insult to books. I was insulting books. But then, I'd gone on and deleted everything I'd written. I was wrong. Everything about me was wrong. Writers – artists – had to be tough. Art was perhaps the most bloodthirsty field there ever was. Failure meant  _complete_ failure. It wasn't like the safe professions. Even if you didn't make billions in those, you'd still get something. Anything. Enough to get food on the table. But art was where you threw yourself into the abyss, fought death with every inch you fell, and seized success with an open, fearless soul. It required maddening courage, and utter and total disregard for the threat of failure.

It was for people like Lovi. Ivan. Arthur. Alfred. Francis. Gilbert. Madeline. Jeanne. Not me. I was terrified.

Nervous terror ripped through me. My hands shot out of their own accord, and I started to scratch.

_But I have promises to keep._

Damn it.

I stopped. I hated it, I  _hated_ it. But I stopped.

My palms shaking, I took out my new phone. I'd bought it just yesterday. It was cheap, but far more durable than my old iPhone, anyway.

**Antonio: Lovi. Mi amor. Hi.**

_Lovi: Hey. Where the hell are you? Didn't see you at lunch._

**Antonio: Library. Talk to me. I'm bored.**

_Lovi: You're bored in a library?_

_Lovi: What's wrong?_

_Lovi: Antonio? Hello?_

_Lovi: The fuck? Reply already, you damn idiota._

I just stared at the screen. How stupid of me. Bored in a library. Of course he knew something was wrong now!

_Lovi: Stay put. I'm on my way._

**Antonio: Wait, no!**

**Antonio: No need. I'm fine.**

**Antonio: You promised you wouldn't coddle me.**

_Lovi: You promised you'd try not to scratch, dammit._

**Antonio: Why do you think I'm texting you right now?**

**Antonio: Can we talk about something else? I'm stressing out.**

_Lovi: Everyone's making Christmas plans, dammit._

**Antonio: Do you have plans?**

_Lovi: Not sure yet. But I think I'm going back to Italy for Christmas break. It would break Feli's heart if I didn't go._

**Antonio: Awwwwwwwww! Soooo cute~**

_Lovi: Fucking weirdo. You'd find a rock cute, I swear to dio._

**Antonio: Hehe, well if it's a cute rock :D What do you want for Christmas? Do you have a wish-list?**

_Lovi: Why, do you want to buy me a present?_

**Antonio: Of course~**

_Lovi: Then guess, bastard. I'm not going to make this easy for you._

"Antonio?"

I jerked up, my eyes widening in slight surprise. Arthur was holding Ernest Hemingway's  _A Farewell to Arms_ , and he looked just as stunned to see me as I looked when I saw him. Well, I supposed it was an odd way to run into each other. My eyes were still wet. There was no possible way to lie myself out of the fact that I'd been crying.

We weren't even  _friends._  That was what made it so much more awkward.

"Um," he said slowly. "Hello."

"Hi," I replied, inwardly wincing at how tired and unhappy I sounded.

"Robert Frost," he said, his eyes going over to the book on the table.

"Yes."

Arthur's gaze softened. "He's one of the few things America's done right."

"Him and Ernest Hemingway," I muttered, motioning to the book in his hands.

Arthur glanced at it. "Frost and Hemingway," Arthur agreed. "Don't tell Alfred I said that; I won't hear the end of it."

I smiled weakly. "I won't."

He swallowed, self-consciously tugging at his sleeves. "Um, right. I should…yeah." He turned to leave, and I almost got back to texting Lovi. But then he stopped, turned, and looked at me in a very pained manner – as though speaking was causing him physical agony. "Um, look, Antonio…"

" _Si_?"

"Your computer? All those stories you lost?"

My heart sunk once more. It had happened so many times in the past couple of days, it was like watching  _Titanic_ on repeat. "Yes?"

He took a deep breath and said, "They're just words. You're a writer. The words will come back to you."

And before I could formulate a response to that, he bolted down the aisle and went out of sight.

I sat there for a long minute, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

_Lovi: Hello?_

_Lovi: Dammit, reply already._

_Lovi: Antonio._

_Lovi: What the fuck is this?_

_Lovi: Antonio Fucking Carriedo._

**Antonio: Looooovi. Sorry. Arthur just ran into me.**

_Lovi: Are you going to go into one of your 'I Hate Arthur' rants? Because they're fucking annoying._

**Antonio: He actually said something nice. Encouraging me about my stories and stuff.**

_Lovi: What the fuck._

**Antonio: I was shocked too! Anyway, so, should I guess what you want for Christmas?**

_Lovi: Ha. You'll never guess._

I smiled slightly, calmer already. The urge was gone. It was gone. Texting Lovi did it. This was possible. Fighting this was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it isn't clear from the first author's note, the poem in the chapter is the last stanza of Robert Frost's Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening. And if you haven't read it, you should. It's so wonderful. You can interpret it in a lot of different ways.


	11. The Hunchback of Notre Dame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I promised myself I wasn't going to use that as a chapter title in my story, because Victor Hugo is an emotionally manipulative jerk and he doesn't have the right to make me laugh like a madwoman and cry like a banshee in the same damn novel.
> 
> Also, in case anyone is wondering, the way people text in this story is grammatically correct and not text-speak because most of the characters are writers, and Lovi likes to read. And all my writer/reader friends make it a point to type in a proper way, so I'm drawing on that.

_The Hunchback of Notre Dame – Victor Hugo_

* * *

"Why do people have to be this lonely? What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?" ― Haruki Murakami _,_ _Sputnik Sweetheart_

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I spent half my time feeling like a drill sergeant and the other half feeling like a criminal. But getting Antonio to stop his fucking scratching all the time was difficult. So fucking difficult. And it made me feel cruel, because I could  _see_ how stressed he got when he couldn't scratch. Lately, he'd been taut and sleepless, irritable and nervous, and would suddenly burst into tears for no apparent reason.

And it wasn't like I couldn't see how wistfully he'd stare at his wrists. And sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking, he'd trace lines on his arms in suspiciously repetitive patterns – like he was pretending to cut himself. And once, he was cutting some tomatoes or something and he suddenly stopped and stared blankly at the knife for almost a full minute.

"What?" I asked, trying to sound bored, as I sat at the table and painted something for class.

"Hmm?" he replied distractedly. And then I heard him sigh before he got back to work. It was really scary. But I could tell he hadn't actually been cutting himself. He was too damn tense all the time. And when he was reading, he'd stare at the page for a long time, as though he wasn't actually paying attention. I could only imagine what he was thinking, and my paranoid mind led me to all sorts of horrific possibilities.

It didn't help that Eduard hadn't been able to restore any of Antonio's stories. He'd tried, he really had, but they were gone. When Eduard told Antonio that, his face became frozen. He very quietly nodded and thanked Eduard. Then later, he locked himself in his room and didn't come out for hours, despite me repeatedly threatening him to open the fucking door. When he finally emerged, his eyes were red and puffy, and his arms were raw and littered with scratch marks.

But otherwise, I could tell he'd been trying. Every time he felt that way, he'd try to suppress it by talking to me, or watching TV, or reading. Or he'd go out for walks. And every morning, Antonio, Alfred, and I ran. Initially Antonio had hated it, but I could see he was getting more used to it. He ran with a hell of a lot more aggression than I'd expected, anyway.

I wasn't sure it was working, though. He still seemed stressed and miserable all the fucking time. And downright angry. I'd not even thought him capable of anger, but once he really lost it and pounced on Gilbert. Gilbert! Because the asshole had made some stupid joke that Antonio didn't find very funny. By the time Alfred, Francis, and I were able to pull them apart, Gilbert had a black eye, and Antonio had a split lip and was  _still_ spiting fire and fuming with rage.

I don't know what came over me one day, but I relented. He'd been extremely snappy, giving acerbic comments to everyone who dared talking to him. Every few minutes, I'd seen flashes of anger in his eyes, and he'd rub his arms over and over again, trying to dispel the nervous energy. So I pretended to be busy and left the room.

When I got back, fifteen minutes later, Antonio was calmer. Much calmer. Happy, even. But he was wearing his jacket.

It tore me up in guilt. I shouldn't have allowed that. But Antonio seemed so much more relaxed now, actually laughing and cracking jokes. Fuck this shit. Fuck it. I hated it that Antonio had to hurt himself to feel this happy. I wanted to rip out his monsters and beat them with a crowbar, I wanted to kick them and shoot them and scream and tell them to leave my boyfriend alone, god-fucking-dammit!

But it was Antonio's battle. Just Antonio's.

Hell.

At least there was one thing to be thankful of. Lately, classes had been keeping all of us very, very busy.

Christmas was coming. The whole college had been decked up. It looked like a postcard. Trees and bells and bows and wreaths and soft snow outside for as far as the eyes could see. But despite the picturesque atmosphere, the last two weeks of college were the most hectic. Suddenly, there were tens and tens of assignments pending, while everyone struggled to get their grades in order. I'd lagged behind on some paintings. As in, Sadik hadn't liked them, and my critical analysis hadn't gone well. Even  _Madeline_ had said they weren't very good. So now, to make up, I had to paint some more shit, including that What Inspires You thing. "Because a cat called Lupa doesn't, and you know it," Sadik told me flatly, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm working on it," I replied with gritted teeth. Was it that obvious to other people that when I was uninspired, the painting was shitty? Glancing back at my canvas picture of Lupa, I almost buried my head in my hands. It was actually fucking embarrassing how bad it was. I hadn't been creative at all. Not with the colour, not with the form, not with anything. It was just Lupa sitting there, staring at you with her green eyes, judging you for simply existing, because that was what cats did.

I had to go buy more art supplies, still torn up. What inspired me? What inspired me? What inspired me, dammit? So I asked Antonio. He could give an objective opinion, right?

"Aw, haha, Lovi, I don't know!" but then his expression turned slightly impish, and he added, "Maybe I inspire you?"

"You inspire me to go looking for inspiration elsewhere," I retorted coolly, to which he laughed. I smiled to myself. Making him laugh made me feel all light and giggly.  _Dio_ , I was such a fucking pansy.

But then I stared vacantly at the damn blank paper, and then at all my paints and brushes, and then I groaned in annoyance and sank my head to the table.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

Just like Lovi, I was swamped with work too. Actually, everybody was. Francis and the other theatre students – who'd been performing plays all year – had to do one final one before the college shut for the vacation. Gilbert, Alfred, and everyone else doing film-making had to submit at least four short films by the same deadline, and there were similar rules for all the music students.

(Ay, I shouldn't have hit Gilbert, it wasn't very nice of me…)

I had to write at least ten-thousand words a day just to keep up. And I had to read a lot, and edit a lot, since each assignment was critically evaluated and basically decimated by the rest of the class, and then we had to rewrite it with improvements. Neither Lovi nor I actually got any sleep for several nights. We'd sit at opposite ends of the table and work, the only sounds coming from my fingers hitting the keyboard and the soft splashes of water as Lovi washed a paintbrush. And sometimes, we'd sit in our respective rooms instead, because when it came to our arts, both of us liked our space. It was comforting, in a way. Oddly enough, Arthur was right. The words were coming back to me.

The self-harm urges, however, were driving me crazy. It was torture. Absolute torture. It was like denying a starving man a meal. Everything triggered me. In fact, I'd become addicted to getting triggered. I'd think deliberately unhappy thoughts. I'd imagine cutting myself. I'd keep my nails slightly long, just so I could feel them scrape across my skin each time my hand accidentally brushed my arm. (Lovi made me trim them, though.)

But most of all, I sought out Ivan.

I'd resolved to get to know Ivan better. His scars fascinated me. Those were the marks I wanted. To have those indents and abrasions litter my skin. Perfection. But we never talked about self-harm. We never even went there. In fact, I doubted Ivan even knew I had a similar problem.

But there was more to him than just his ruined skin, of course. Sometimes I struggled to remember that. However, there were also times where we could talk about anything under the sun. He was a really nice person.

He was from Moscow. His favourite flowers were sunflowers. He had two sisters. He loved novels, but could never get himself to write one. He liked vodka. A lot. He found English winters sort of funny, and thought it was mildly hilarious that I froze every time I stepped outside. Ivan liked wearing scarves, and his favourite one was the one he wore every day – the one his sister made especially for him on his fourteenth birthday. He liked trying out different kinds of food, and he particularly enjoyed pizzas. When I told Lovi that last bit, he made one just for Ivan. Lovi didn't say why. He just made a small pizza, shoved it under my nose, blushed deeply, and muttered, "Well, Russian food is shit and it isn't good for anybody." Ivan was very happy with the little gift.

I found him in the library the other day, and he was completely engrossed in  _Anna Karenina_. He was sighing happily, flipping the pages with almost loving slowness. I'd gone looking for  _Don Quixote_ when I'd seen him in the Russian literature section further down the aisle.

"Hola," I said softly, because it  _was_ a library, after all.

Ivan glanced up, confused for a moment, and then he gave me a big smile. "Oh, Toni! Hi!" He came up to me. "What are you reading?"

I showed him the book.

"Ooh, I've heard good things about that. I've always meant to read it."

"You should," I told him happily. "Maybe over the winter break?" I kept glancing at his arms. Part of me just wanted to wrench his sleeves back and  _stare_ at his scars. Another part of me wanted to ask him if I could borrow a blade. Nobody even had to know.

_Shut up shut up shut up have some self control shut up Antonio stop stop stop I need a blade now now now stop please stop scratch scratch scratch please scratch no stop fuck fuck I hate myself_

I almost buckled in my attempts to resist scratching. My fingers pressed so deeply into the covers of the book that I felt my shortened nails leaving dents. Oh god, this was an antique library book, what was I doing to it?

I bit my bottom lip so hard that a sudden sting and a metallic taste hit my tongue.

Oh, pain.

Good.

Thank god. It wasn't much, but it was  _something_. It wasn't satisfying at all, but it would have to do. Ivan was talking, and I forced myself to listen. Forced myself to calm down.

Ivan just shrugged. "I'd love to read  _Don_ Quixote, but I first have to finish this." He held the book out in a way that I could see the title better. "It's funny, but I have this dream. Goal, you could say. I want to read  _Anna Karenina_ at least thrice before I die. But it's such a big book!"

I laughed. "That's interesting." My voice was an octave higher than usual, and I was trembling just a little bit from the self-harm impulse.

"Indeed!" he grinned at me. "You know what, I've never asked – how is your computer?"

Oh. Right. Because  _that_  was going to calm me down.

"Eduard was able to fix it," I lied smoothly.

"Oh, wonderful! And how are all your stories?"

My smile tightened, and I slowly started to rub my wrist. Enough. I needed release. Now. "Gone. He tried to restore them, but…"

Ivan's expression changed dramatically. His face fell, his shoulders slumped, and a small, soft frown came onto his lips. "Oh, Toni, I'm so sorry. You must be so upset."

" _Si_ …" As long as I was rubbing my arms and not clutching the skin, that was fine. It technically wasn't self-harm, because I wasn't hurting myself. I was just rubbing my arms. Because it was cold. Because it was winter. And snowing outside. Yes. It was chilly. Yes. Exactly. I could control this. I had to, because I couldn't start scratching myself in front of Ivan, for god's sake. I needed my privacy. Besides, he was the one with  _actual reasons_ to be self-harming. Whatever those reasons were…

He shook his head. "Bad things, bad things. But do you at least have a new novel to work on? Or did Emma find that attachment of your Isabel and Carlos story? I'd always thought that story was so cute! And the twist at the end was just brilliant!"

Oh god. Now that that novel was gone, I was missing it like crazy. Yes, the twist in the end  _was_ brilliant. Yes, the emotional development of each character was superb. Yes, the plot structure was unique, flirting with the concept of fluid time and chronology itself. That novel was prodigal.

And now it was completely gone.

I slowly lowered my eyes.

Ivan must have noticed, because he quickly said, "But I'm sure your new one will be just as good, if not better! Do you have any ideas?"

I did. It was slowly brewing, taking form and face. Like a creature being born out of a lump of clay. But the idea was not one I could share easily, and anyway, I didn't want to talk about it now. It was too soon. The plot was not even halfway done yet. I'd wait until it was more concrete. So I shook my head, and said, "No, no ideas."

"Aw, Toni, that sucks! No worries, though. You have all of Christmas break to think about it. And anyway, the year ends in June, so that's six months! Plenty of time!"

Six months to write a novel and edit it at least three times? Ay, god.

When Ivan left, I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket and stabbed my nails into my arm. Damn it. Lovi had made me trim them for  _exactly_ this reason. I was pressing my arm so much I'd leave bruises, but not a single scratch mark. I tried clutching next, but it was practically painless without my nails.

ARRGH!

DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN IT TO HELL GOD FUCKING DAMMIT ARGH

I ran my hands through my hair so roughly that I actually ended up hitting my scalp. Then, shakily, I took out my phone. I had to calm down. Be strong. I just had to calm down. Lovi trusted me. Ugh, why? Another promise I had to keep!

**Antonio: Lovi**

**Antonio: Te amo**

**Antonio: Te amo mucho**

_Lovi: Uh…ti amo?_

_Lovi: That was fucking random._

**Antonio: Haha. What's up? Painting? Sketching?**

_Lovi: I was actually trying to sleep._

_Lovi: And you woke me up._

_Lovi: And I haven't been sleeping properly for three fucking days._

_Lovi: Because of these stupid fucking assignments god dammit I hate this_

**Antonio: Lo siento…**

Everything I did was wrong.

_Lovi: Shit._

_Lovi: That should have occurred to me. Fuck._

_Lovi: You're texting because you're feeling like hurting yourself. And I made you feel worse._

_Lovi: Sorry._

_Lovi: Are you all right?_

**Antonio: SI! :D I was bored, that's all :) Go back to sleep. Te amo!**

_Lovi: Right…_

_Lovi: I bought an ebook version of The Goldfinch._

_Lovi: it's a huge fucking book._

_Lovi: But it's about a painting. I think. Which is great._

**Antonio: I want to read Anna Karenina.**

_Lovi: Russian literature? I'm so disappointed._

**Antonio: XD**

**Antonio: Ivan was reading that.**

_Lovi: Well, he's Russian. What the fuck does he know about literature?_

**Antonio: He knows enough to be the best in class…**

_Lovi: Doesn't count._

I sighed loudly, slumping against a wall as I lowered my phone. I was fine. Okay. Fine. I survived it.

**Antonio: I feel better now.**

_Lovi: I fucking knew you were feeling down._

_Lovi: Well, good if you're better._

_Lovi: Get back here and make some hot chocolate, idiota._

_Lovi: I'm going to sleep. It better be there when I wake up._

**Antonio: Si mi amor :)**

* * *

But when I entered the apartment, Lovi sort of jumped at me and kissed me. Didn't he say he was going to sleep? His lips were as soft and perfect as ever, and when he pulled away, his face was adorably red. "Dammit," he muttered simply, went to his room, and shut the door.

I burst out laughing. "Aw, Lovi, what was that for?"

The door opened slightly. "For texting me instead, you jerk bastard."

And he slammed it shut again.

* * *

" _Antonio, you're coming home for Christmas, aren't you?"_

I pressed the bridge of my nose as I held my phone to my ear. In Spanish, I replied to Henrique,  _  
"Yes."_

" _Is your…friend…coming with you?"_

I frowned a little. Friend?  _"You mean Lovino?"_

" _Yes."_

I glanced up at Lovi, who was covered in splashes of red and blue and purple, with a streak of yellow across his nose and green spots on his shirt. He was sitting at the table, furiously painting a self-portrait. I put my hand on the phone to cover the speaker, and asked, "Do you want to come to Spain for the Christmas break?"

Lovino looked up, surprised. "I already have my ticket to Italy, stupid. Remember, I even asked if you wanted to come? Feli sure as hell wanted to meet you."

Oh, yes. I'd said no because my family would want me home for Christmas. Of course.

"Haha,  _si_. Sorry." I put my phone back to my ear.  _"He's not coming."_

" _All right. I'm booking your ticket for you. It'll be great to have you back, man. I thought I might end up spending Christmas in Portugal again…damn work commitments. But nope! I'm free. Unless they have some last minute crap going on. You can never know with these guys."_

" _Hmm."_ I wasn't even mad at Henrique. I just didn't feel like talking to him. In fact, the whole idea of going back home made me feel really down. I didn't know what came over me next, but I said,  _"Actually, I think I'd better stay here for Christmas."_

Henrique had been telling me about his job when he suddenly stopped short.  _"What? Why?"_

" _My computer crashed a while ago. Lost all my stories. I need to write a new one now. And the atmosphere here…I mean, it's better for my writing. I can pay attention."_

" _What the fuck, Antonio. You're going to stay in ENGLAND for Christmas? What about mom and dad? They'd be heartbroken. And we always eat twelve grapes at New Year's. Remember that one time I challenged you to holding twenty-one grapes in your mouth at the same time and you almost choked?"_

" _Not exactly my happiest memory."_

" _Yeah, but we had fun, didn't we? After both of us got yelled at by dad…"_

I laughed slightly. Nothing serious had actually happened. And it had been funny. But then my smile faltered a little.  _"If I don't give them a novel by the end of the year, I could fail. You know that, right?"_

" _How can your computer just crash like that, for heaven's sake!"_

" _I don't know. But I can't come home."_

" _Antonio, this is rubbish. I'm buying your ticket, and I'll see you in Madrid in two weeks."_

" _Buy my ticket. You won't see me in Madrid, but sure, buy my ticket. Waste the money."_

" _You're being ridiculous."_

" _Yeah, go tattle to dad. Anyway you're going to tell him I'm acting weird and they'll think I'm trying to kill myself. I don't even care anymore. Do what you want. I have to go."_

" _Antonio –"_

I cut the call and exhaled loudly in annoyance. Lovino didn't look at me, but he quietly said, "I don't understand a fucking word of Spanish, but that didn't sound like it went well."

My phone rang again. It was Henrique. I groaned. This guy was so persistent. I didn't want to see them. I liked it here. I didn't want to waste my Christmas being doted upon like I was about to die.

"Answer it," Lovino calmly said.

"What? No."

"Answer it, Antonio," he repeated in that same relaxed tone.

I stared helplessly at Lovino as my phone blared away. "But –"

He finally lowered his paintbrush and  _looked_ at me. "Don't they have the right to be worried about you?"

I stared. "But…" Suddenly, the phone seemed bigger, heavier, louder in my hand. I sighed. "All right." I hit the green button and got the phone to my ear. "Hi."

" _What the hell was that?"_

" _Sorry. I got annoyed."_

" _That's not an excuse, Antonio."_

" _It's not an excuse. It's the truth."_

" _Shut up."_ But then I heard Henrique sigh on the other end.  _"Why don't you want to come home?"_

" _I just don't. I like it here. And I'm serious, I need to work on another manuscript. I only have six months, and I barely have a premise. If I come home, between mom, dad, Aunt Marisol, Uncle Diego, and Sierra, Miguel, Paco, and Sancho, there won't be a single moment of peace at home. And don't tell me that mom and dad won't invite the whole extended family from Seville over for Christmas, because they always do that. And Sierra is an adorable little baby but she cries all the time!"_

He didn't say anything for a long minute. And finally, haltingly, he said,  _"You know how upset mom is going to be."_

" _I'm sorry. Really."_

He sighed.  _"Fine. But I'm not bailing you out of this. Mom and dad are going to flip, and it's your problem."_

" _I know, I know. Thanks."_

" _Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, I better go. Unlike you, I actually have a job."_

" _Cheap shot."_

" _It was worth it."_ Henrique laughed.  _"Bye."_

" _Bye,"_  I said slowly.

When I cut the phone, Lovi said, "Was that any better?" He still didn't look up at me, busy with his painting.

"Much better."

"You're welcome."

"Haha, Lovi.  _Te amo_."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He smirked to himself.

"I'm not going to Spain for Christmas."

"What?" His head shot up suddenly. "Why the fuck not?"

So I paraphrased the whole conversation with my brother, and when I was done, Lovi was giving me a very suspicious look. "How about Italy, then? It's not that loud at my place. We barely even have relatives." I knew he was worried about me staying here alone, but I was fine. Really.

"You think I'm going to cut myself if you're not breathing down my neck?" I'd meant to make it sound, I don't know, humorous. But it came out like a spark of electricity, sharp, vicious, and sudden.

"Yes, actually," Lovi replied coolly. "You haven't exactly been Mr. Sunshine these last couple of weeks."

"Well, I won't," I muttered. I didn't want to argue with Lovi. Anyway, I understood why he was worried. But I simply wasn't feeling social. I wanted to hang around in college. It would be empty and quiet. I could work on my story idea, visit the library, maybe go to London again. Or Edinburgh. Just do my own thing, for once.

Lovino looked at me so seriously that I almost wanted to disappear. I could actually  _see_ the conflict flipping in his eyes. He was thinking up and dismissing several arguments at once, debating with himself. The paintbrush in his hand shook a little. Diluted blue paint slid down the length of his brush, hanging by the end of its bristles.

Lovino flicked the brush into the cup of water near him, and slowly said, "Fine. I'm trusting you on that."

I exhaled a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "Good.  _Gracias._ "

* * *

**Antonio: Hi, Ivan! What are you doing for Christmas?**

_Ivan: Russia ^.^_

**Antonio: Russian winters must be so cold!**

_Ivan: Da! But they're the best ^.^_

**Antonio: Haha, okay.**

**Antonio: I actually do have a story idea.**

_Ivan: Oh? That's wonderful, Toni :) What is it about, if you don't mind me asking?_

I stared for a long moment at the screen. I wasn't even sure why I'd even texted him in the first place. I was just taking a free moment from finishing a ten-page assignment. My eyes hurt. It was four in the morning. But somehow, I knew he'd be awake. Everyone was up late these days, scrambling to finish last-minute stuff.

What was my story even about? Articulating it was so difficult!

**Antonio: Um, haha. It's hard to explain.**

_Ivan: Oh, I understand :) You can always explain it in class._

_Ivan: It's hard to believe our last class before Christmas break is on Friday. The year seemed to fly by._

**Antonio: It's not over yet :P**

_Ivan: It feels like it is, though._

_Ivan: Christmas always makes me a little melancholy, hehe ^.^_

**Antonio: I know what you mean.**

_Ivan: You do?_

**Antonio: Christmas is just too much.**

_Ivan: Too much of what?_

**Antonio: Everything. Too much of everything.**

_Ivan: Da. Exactly._

_Ivan: Christmas is just too much of everything._


	12. The Secret Life of Bees

_The Secret Life of Bees – Sue Monk Kidd_

* * *

"I wanted to change the world. But I have found that the only thing one can be sure of changing is oneself." ― Aldous Huxley,  _Point Counter Point_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

Today was Friday, the last working day before the college closed for Christmas break. My feet pounded the earth as I ran, for once tearing ahead of both Lovino and Alfred. The sky was so dark. The snow so bright. Logic was being crushed under the heels of my sneakers, crushed by the force of anger, fear, determination. I ran. Ran, ran, ran.

And for one moment, I had the inkling of an epiphany. Lovi was making me run because it was the anger that made me want to hurt myself. Rage, hate. I was nothing but a volcano of fury; fury at myself, and at the world. There wasn't a reason why. There didn't have to be. It was just the way of things.

Later, back in the flat, I stood by the window in my bedroom, sipping my coffee, staring at the snow. Lovi entered softly. I heard the quiet pads of his soft feet on the carpeted floor.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

I shook my head, and stared out into space. "How are you going for that painting? That one about what inspires you?"

Lovino mumbled something incoherent, and I turned to look at him. His face was dark red, and he muttered, "I finished it last night. Although I don't know how good it is...I'm going to hand it in today."

I smiled. "Can I see?"

"No!" he cried out. "I – I mean," he added hastily, "It's personal…"

I tilted my head. "What's so personal that you can't show me?"

Lovino lowered his eyes. "Okay. But you have to promise not to laugh."

"Of course,  _mi amor_."

"Wait here. I'll get it."

He returned with a large canvas in his hands, and carefully placed it on my bed. And then he crossed his arms, blushed, and looked away.

Oh.

It was me.

A side portrait of my face, laughing. In the background, he'd painted a part of the Florence Cathedral. In the picture, my eyes were golden, not green. The painting was gentle, far more gentle than anything I'd ever seen Lovi paint. He'd taken so much care to get all the colours right, to get all the shades, lines, perfectly.

"Three things really inspire me," he said quietly. "Florence, Feliciano, and you. And I can never get your eyes right, so I painted them amber – Feli's eyes. But your smile. See?" He seemed to become an even darker shade of red as he gestured at my wide, carefree grin in the picture. "Antonio, dammit, say something. I'm getting so embarrassed!"

"I love you so much," I said quietly. When I looked up at him, my eyes were stinging. "I'm going to cry.  _Dios,_ Lovi." I wiped my tears on the back of my hand. "It's so beautiful." I pulled him into a hug, holding onto his slender frame, feeling his arms lace around my torso. He looked up and kissed me. His lips felt especially soft right now, warm, sweet. I smiled slightly into the kiss, and when he pulled away, he was looking at me very intensely.

"Are you sure there isn't anything on your mind?"

"Yes," I lied simply. "And the painting is fantastic. One of the best things you've ever painted."

"You're just saying that because you're in it," he teased, a smirk on his face.

"Haha, that might have something to do with it too."

He rolled his eyes but smiled. "I have to go pack my suitcase now."

"When is your flight, again?"

"Tonight! And you're dropping me to the airport, dammit."

"Of course, Lovinito!"

And while Lovi packed, I got ready for class.

* * *

"This is basically an obligatory last class," Emma began, leaning back against her chair. "All of you have made your grade, so you have nothing to worry about over Christmas break. However, I do need to talk to you about some stuff, so listen up, okay?"

All of us made noises of agreement.

"First of all, have you guys heard of the culture festival?"

"Yes," Mei said quickly. "All the seniors have been talking about it."

"Right. It's going to be a blast. One month before your final assignment submissions. The weather will be lovely. There'll be theatre, movies, art exhibitions, music shows, the whole deal. All handled entirely by the students. It's a students' forum, really. You guys get to showcase your talent. Judges will be called in, parents are invited, and we even put out ads in the papers, so a lot of people are going to show up.

"Usually, the creative writing department organises writing competitions. We're still having that. But this year, we want to do something even better. All of you will create a short piece – it doesn't even have to be fiction, it can be narrative non-fiction – and if it's good, we'll publish it as an anthology. Your class, and all of your seniors, will contribute. The department has contacts with lots and lots of publishers, so getting it in print won't be a problem."

"I'm looking forward to this," Emil said quietly.

"You should be," Emma agreed. "You can start working on something for the fest, but there's time. Right now, I'd prefer it if you focused on your books. You  _have_ to submit a completed manuscript by the end of the year if you want to pass the class. For some reason, very few of you have made any headway.  _Only_  Ivan has met the minimum word limit of fifty-thousand words."

Ivan sat up straighter, a proud smile on his face. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Mei, Emil, Arthur, how close are you three to finishing? Fifty-thousand words is not a lot, guys. Come on. Pick up the pace a little."

"It's a lot harder when each chapter is critiqued every week, and then we have to make changes," Emil argued. "I've been working on chapter ten for four weeks now!"

Emma stared at him. "Excuses won't work. Please work on your books over Christmas break. I can't emphasise the importance of this enough. After classes restart, the assignments, extra-curricular activities, guest lectures, all of that will kill you. I'm not kidding." She then turned to me. "And Antonio, what's the scene with your book? I know what happened with your laptop was pretty tragic, but it's been weeks since then. Have you at least come up with an idea?"

This was the part I'd been dreading. My palms were sweaty, my tongue was dry, and I could hear the roar of my heartbeat in my ears. "Um, yes."

"You have an idea?" Emma asked, sitting up straighter. All eyes were on me. "Shoot. Let's hear it."

"Well, um," I said slowly, choosing my words very, very carefully. "Berwald Oxenstierna, well, he told me that I use too much technique, when I should ideally be focusing on simply telling the story. That technique and style is secondary."

"Yes?" Emma prompted.

"And, well, I thought about it. And he's right. So the idea…well, the premise I have…it's a subject I'm pretty familiar with. And I really believe it's a story that needs to be told." I glanced at Ivan for a split second, before looking back at Emma Manon. "The main character is a pianist."

"Uh-huh, and?"

"And he self-harms."

The silence that followed that statement was like an explosion. It rocked the room, shook it down to its very core. Self-harm. Such a tricky topic. So controversial. So unsafe. Everyone was staring at me. Everyone. But only two people stood out. Arthur's gaze was extremely studying, and I saw him glance at my palms. There were scabs from old scratch marks on them. I pretended not to notice him.

Ivan, on the other hand, looked like he might throw up. He was clutching his desk so tightly that his knuckles had become white. He looked pale, stricken. And it was he who finally broke the silence. "Self-harm?" His voice sounded soft, scared.

"Uh, yeah," I said slowly, going back to the lies I'd thought up. "Um, well, I can write that. Back in school, a friend of mine used to scratch himself. A lot. And stuff. I really want to talk about this. Nobody ever does. And even when they do, the stories seem so fake, as though they have no clue what it's like…so…um, I'd like to try my hand at it."

Emma was staring at me. I could see her mind at work. I tried to avoid looking into anyone's eyes, but breaking eye-contact would be giving myself away. Nobody could know the things I did to myself. Nobody.

"That sounds like a pretty good premise," Emma said finally. "A pianist who self-harms. Go on. What happens next?"

"Um, right. So, he's a perfectionist. He's always been told he was talented, abnormally gifted. Every time he's played, he's surpassed everyone in his year. And he's young, too. Nineteen, twenty. The piano is the only thing he's good at. The only thing that makes him feel worth anything. And he pressurises himself. A lot. The scratching, and occasionally cutting, is his only real outlet.

"But then he meets – uh, I still need to pick a name – but he meets a young man who sort of…helps him?"

"Are you all right?" Arthur suddenly asked, and that was when I noticed how much I was shaking.

"Fine," I mumbled, rubbing my hands together. "It's cold."

"I'll turn up the heat," Mei said softly, getting up and playing with the radiator's buttons. We'd lost the remote ages ago.

"How does he self-harm?" Ivan asked, and the quiet understanding on his face made me want to run. "You said he scratches and cuts. But  _how_?"

"What does that question even mean?" Emil muttered.

"Blades," I replied simply. "And the scratching…well, that's far more compulsive."

"And is he triggered by episodes of depression?"

"More like stress, Panic. Depression makes him want to sleep."

"Oh," Ivan said simply. "I like it."

"Wait, hold on. We're not done," Emma said. "How does this young man – let's call him Person A – help our pianist?"

That was the hard question. Luckily, I had an answer.

"The only way he can. He helps the pianist help himself." I sighed. "It's really complicated to explain."

"I get it," Ivan replied. He looked at everyone else in the room. "Self-harmers  _like_ it. Part of it is actual enjoyment. Another part is compulsive. Sort of like alcoholism or drug addiction. They  _need_ to do it. They know how bad it is for them, but that doesn't matter. And the only way you can actually help them is if you convince him or her that the change is worth it. That they are worth it. Most of it is self-hate, low self-esteem. They think they deserve the punishment. Of course, it can also be attention-seeking behaviour, but that's also a sign of low self-esteem and a need for approval. But once you get addicted, it's hard to stop." Ivan then looked at me. "Isn't that what you meant to say, Antonio?"

I nodded. My throat felt constricted.

"Is it a love story?" Mei asked.

"Yes? Sort of? But its main focus would be the actual issue – the self-harm. It's pretty psychological, that way."

"If anyone can pull this off, it's you," Emil said simply. "You're the best person to deal with something emotionally charged."

"Agreed," Arthur said, and I glanced up in surprise. "What?" he defended, because everyone else was looking at him with raised eyebrows. "Credit where credit is due. Antonio is fantastic with emotion. This sort of thing is his forte."

My ears became red. "Thanks, I guess?"

"Fine," Emma conceded. "Ideally, we'd discuss this story of yours in far more detail. But there isn't enough time right now. When will you start working on this?"

"Tonight."

"Excellent. Antonio, you can finish it in time, can't you?"

"Yes. I know I can."

"All right." She looked at me worriedly. "Okay. Fine."

Ivan stared at me, and I glanced away. I couldn't stand his knowing gaze right now. I just couldn't. I was too stressed out, and the urge to scratch was killing me. Ivan wrung his hands together and said, "I have some vatrushka. I made it myself. It's my Christmas treat before all of us leave. Would you guys like to try it?"

God bless him for changing the subject.

Empathy.

Ivan took out a lunchbox from his bag, opened it, and passed it around. "It's freshly made! And it's my secret recipe. You will love it!"

"Aw, thanks, Ivan," Emma said with a smile, taking a piece before passing the box. I took mine with trembling hands, and ate in complete silence. It was delicious. Emma thought so too, which made Ivan really happy.

"I knew you'd like it," he said with a grin.

I went to the bathroom as soon as class ended. And I scratched. I'd promised Lovi I wouldn't, but I just had to. This was too much. I'd been dreading this, dreading this. I locked myself in a bathroom cubicle and sank to the floor, scratching and clutching. I  _wanted_ to write this story. I knew I could. I also knew it was going to be very, very triggering. But it was a story I had to tell.

Scratching was difficult because my nails were still too short, but they were growing back. It was better than nothing. I clutched the skin of my palms, twisting it, inhaling sharply as the pain hit me. This was heaven. I'd been missing this. All of this. Why would people want to stop self-harming? As long as they didn't become suicidal, it was perfectly fine. It was  _good_ , even. My skin was warm from the friction of scratching. I stabbed my arms with my nails, deeper, deeper. I could breathe. Weeks and weeks of stress were tearing out of me. I could finally breathe.

When I had enough, I let my palms fall to my sides, and I just sat there with my knees to my chin, allowing my body to recover.

I'd chosen to substitute 'writer' with 'pianist' because everyone knew that when the main character of a novel was a writer, the book was at least semi-autobiographical. Was it smart to expose myself this way?

I sighed, standing up and dusting myself off. I felt calmer now. Much calmer. I'd missed scratching. So much. I'd scratched pretty badly, too. It was raw and burning, everything irritated it.

But it was a good feeling.

It felt  _so good_.

I washed my face, and stared deeply into the mirror, and the guilt started to become stronger. "I can't do that again," I told my reflection softly. "For Lovi's sake."

* * *

I found Gilbert and Francis at the dining area. Gilbert was staring deeply into his laptop. I'd never seen him so focused before. Or so tired. His skin was pale, the whites of his eyes as red as his irises. Francis, beside him, had his head on the table and seemed fast asleep.

I walked up to them. The last of the bruise from attacking Gilbert was still there. "Hey."

He looked up and grinned sleepily at me. "Hey, man."

I sat opposite them, and gestured at Francis, looking at Gilbert questioningly.

"Poor sucker hasn't slept in four nights," Gilbert replied. "They got their final grades today, and he aced the class, so now he's crashing."

"Aw, poor guy. I think we'll have to make sure he gets onto the flight at least semi-conscious."

"I think so too!" Gilbert laughed. He turned back to the computer, hit the keyboard a few times, and shut the laptop. "I was just going over this short-film Alfred and I made together."

"For class?"

"Nah, just for the heck of it. It's only three minutes long, really. I'm putting it on Youtube. You should check it out." Gilbert yawned. " _Gott_ , I'm so tired. These last few weeks have been insane. And you deleting your novel like that…damn. Did you pitch your idea? You said you were going to."

I rolled up my sleeves and showed Gilbert my arms. "Does that answer your question?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I really hope this story isn't going to trigger you, man."

I'd told Francis and Gilbert the basic outline, and even why I wanted to write it. They'd seemed, well…encouraging. But a little dubious. I couldn't even blame them. I hadn't told Lovi yet. I knew I had to, but still…

"Even if it does," I said slowly, cautiously, "I am going to write it. I have to write it. Plus, I think it might actually help me."

Gilbert just stared at me for a loooooong time. And then he nodded. "Okay. I trust you on that."

I smiled. "Good. When's your flight?"

"Around the same time as Francis's and Jeanne's. I'm leaving with them." He glanced at his phone. "In…three hours." He grinned at me. "Don't tell Luddy this, but I'm actually really excited. I've missed the poor guy."

I snickered. "You're way better than me. I had an argument with my parents again today. They were demanding that I come back home for Christmas. I mean, yes, it's  _Christmas_ after all, but still! I somehow just don't want to see them. Also, to be honest, I'm getting a little desperate about my book."

Gilbert snorted in laughter. "Oh, speaking of Christmas. You won't believe it. I bought Ludwig Union Jack boxers."

"You  _what_?"

"I knoooooow!" Gilbert cried out, laughing loudly. "He's going to  _hate_ me!"

"Will you both shut up?" Francis snapped, raising his head. He looked even worse than Gilbert. His hair was stuck to his brow and there was a trail of drool from his mouth. "I haven't slept in ages, and you people are bothering me. Shut up and good night."

Gilbert and I glanced at each other, both of us wearing identical smirks.

"SO, WHAT DID YOU GET FOR THE REST OF THE FAMILY?" I almost hollered.

"OH, THE NORMAL STUFF. A LOCH NESS MONSTER PLUSHIE FOR DAD, A RECIPE BOOK FOR MOM. ALTHOUGH MOM DOESN'T COOK."

"THAT'S OKAY, ENGLISH FOOD ISN'T EDIBLE ANYWAY."

" _Merde_ ," Francis hissed. He sat up, reached out for the glass of lukewarm hot chocolate by his head. But before he could throw it at us, we jumped to our feet, laughing wildly. He glared, looking like a completely undignified, un-Francis-like mess, but then we saw a small smile appear onto his lips, and he cussed something under his breath in French, rolled his eyes, and set the cup down.

"Aw, Franny, we love you too," I cooed.

"Yes, yes, whatever," he rolled his eyes once more, and then yawned. "I'm so tired,  _mon dieu_. This semester has been busier than I thought it would be."

"Next semester will be worse," Gilbert said with fake cheer as we sat down next to Francis again.

"Don't remind me." Francis checked his watch. "I still need to pack some things." Standing up, he said, "See you later,  _mes amis_. Antonio, you and your boyfriend shall be coming along,  _non_? I think Lovino's flight leaves around the same time as ours does."

" _Si_ , it does!"

"Ah, excellent. I have presents to give people."

"As long as it isn't like last year's  _presents_ …" Gilbert muttered, and he and I shuddered. "Scarring shit, Francis. Scarring shit."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Even by  _our_ standards…"

Francis rolled his eyes for the third time. "Oh, what do you two know about love, anyway?"

Last year, he bought us two really tacky, bright pink, fluffy, feathery, heart-shaped picture-frames.

* * *

As I was saying bye to him, I handed him a box covered in wrapping paper and a ribbon. "This is for you, Lovi! Merry Christmas."

Lovino blinked at me, taking the present and staring at it. We both knew he was getting late for his flight, but he didn't seem to care. "I didn't get you anything," he muttered quietly. "I was going to buy you something from Italia."

"Aww, that's fine, Lovi!" I kissed him on the forehead.

"Do you want me to open it now?" he asked, turning beetroot.

"It's up to you," I sing-songed. He could be so cute!

So he carefully undid the wrapping paper. Funny, I would have picked him for a 'rip it open and create a mess' kind of person. But he pulled out each strip of sticky-tape, neatly unfolded the foil, and pocketed it. He stared openly at the box.

"You bought me a wacom tablet."

"Haha, yes! Do you like it? You're always posting stuff on Deviantart but you have to keep scanning your drawings. This would make it easier."

Lovino stared at his present, and then stared at me. "This must have cost you a fucking arm and a leg."

"Aw, that's okay, Lovi. All that matters is if you like it!"

Lovino suddenly jumped forward and kissed me. "Well, I don't completely hate it."

Which I knew meant he loved it. So I was happy.

I didn't have the heart to tell him about my new novel. Maybe I'd call him later. So I wished him a safe flight instead.

I was sitting in a cab on the way back to the college when my phone buzzed.

* * *

_Ivan: I am so stupid._

_Ivan: So, so, so stupid._

_Ivan: I can't believe this._

**Antonio: Hey, what's wrong?**

_Ivan: I COMPLETELY forgot to give everyone their presents!_

_Ivan: ARGH. In all the packing and everything…what's wrong with me?_

_Ivan: I hate myself._

**Antonio: Ivan, relax! They're just presents. You don't HAVE to give them.**

**Antonio: And anyway, you're not the only one. I didn't buy anything for anybody except Lovino.**

**Antonio: To be honest, his present made me totally broke :'D**

_Ivan: Yes, but…Arthur's plant will die._

**Antonio: It's okay. Get him a new plant. Relax, nobody will hold it against you. Just give it to them when you get back after the Christmas break.**

_Ivan: Oh._

_Ivan: Oh, silly me. I could just do that._

_Ivan: Yes, after the Christmas break! C:_

_Ivan: Thank you. Sorry for freaking out._

**Antonio: Aw, it's okay. No problem. Don't worry, it'll be fine. :)**

_Ivan: I have to go now. I'm in the aircraft and they're saying I need to switch off my phone._

_Ivan: Merry Christmas!_

**Antonio: Merry Christmas! Have a safe flight! See you after the break!**

_Ivan: :) Thanks. Bye._

* * *

It was snowing. The college was almost completely empty. It was night. I sat in the quiet dining area, staring at my laptop, a rising feeling of hopelessness in my chest. Blank pages. Was there anything more annoying, more mocking, than an empty page? I simultaneously loved and hated them. I liked to prove that they were nothing – that I could put words into them, fill them up, give them purpose, meaning, significance. But at the same time, they seemed to laugh at me.

If I could just write the first sentence, everything else would come easily. This was essentially  _my_ story. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. I just couldn't figure out how to begin.

In the dead silence that filled the high-ceilinged room, I heard footsteps. Tap, tap, tap. They were enough to distract me. I looked up, expecting to find a teacher. Most of them had gone on leave, though. So who could it possibly—

Arthur and I just stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Antonio," he said slowly, walking up to me.

"Arthur."

He stood at the table, and then, hesitating, sat across from me. "I thought you must have left for Spain."

"And you for London," I replied coolly.

"My parents were driving up here to fetch me," he explained. "But they had to postpone it because of bad weather. They're picking me up tomorrow."

"Oh," I mumbled, and turned my eyes back to the laptop. Why did I have to deal with Arthur now? It was a lot easier when we couldn't stand each other. It was weird when he was being nice. How was I supposed to react now? Maybe I should be acting civil?

Arthur got up, came behind me, and chuckled in a soft, empathetic way. "Blank page woes, eh?" He slid into the bench beside me.

"If I could just get the first sentence right…" I grumbled, not looking at him.

"It's a wonderful concept," he said simply, and I snapped my head towards him.

"What?"

"Your story idea," he said slowly, looking at me as though I was stupid. "It's really good."

"Why are you being so nice?" I muttered, my cheeks darkening despite myself.

"I don't bloody know," he retorted, looking away. "I'm just telling you what I honestly think. It's brave, and you're right, people need to talk about stuff like that a bit more."

"Um, thanks, I suppose."

"Sure. You're welcome."

An awkward silence fell between us.

He cleared his throat. "So, how come you decided to stay behind? On  _Christmas_ , too."

I shrugged. If only I knew the answer to that question myself.

"Won't it get lonely?" he went on.

"I need to work on this," I replied simply, turning back to my laptop. My fingers hovered above the keys, but once again, the perfect opening sentence completely evaded me.

Arthur looked at me, and then looked to his knees. "It's not nice to be alone on Christmas. Even if it's for a story."

"Yeah, whatever," I retorted. "I'm not going to spend it with my family. I can't  _stand_ them right now."

"What about Lovino, then?"

Of course I wanted to be with Lovi. But I just needed some  _space._ Not from Lovi himself, but from the concern, the worry, the  _everything_. I just needed a mental break; an escape from my own mind.

When I didn't reply, Arthur did.

"You could come over."

Once more, my head snapped in his direction. " _What_?"

"You should come over for Christmas." Arthur was staring straight ahead, as though looking at me would make him explode. Lovi always looked like that when he was being nice. Arthur went on, "It's just not nice to be alone this time of year. I know we hate each other and all of that, but still. Think about it. My parents are coming tomorrow afternoon. You can pack your stuff and be ready by then. And who knows, a change of scene might help you with your book."

"You're not serious." I just gaped at him.

"Very serious." He finally looked at me. Our eyes – two different shades of green – met, and I could see not a trace of deception or cruelty in his.

"Why would you even offer?" I cried.

"It's like you weren't listening to a bloody word I was saying, you git," Arthur snapped, and relief flooded me. Okay, so he hadn't completely lost his mind. He was still Arthur, with his 'bloody' and 'git' in every three sentences. "Even if you're a wanker, it would be pathetic and lonely to be all alone on Christmas. If you don't want to come, that's fine. I don't really care." He crossed his arms, rolled his eyes, and slid away from me on the bench.

"So you're…serious?" I questioned slowly. None of this was making sense to me. "You want me to Christmas with you and your family?"

"Don't make it sound as though we're friends," Arthur snapped. "I just feel sorry for you. That's all, you git!"

I blinked.

What came over me in that moment? I definitely wasn't thinking straight.

"Um, I'll come, Arthur. If you really want me to, that is."

He blinked too, staring at me in utter disbelief. "Really?"

"Sure…" I shrugged.

"Uh…that's great. Let me tell my parents." He took out his phone, but he still looked about as stunned as I felt.

Oh, now I'd have to pack.


	13. A Christmas Carol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter doesn't seem to have a point, but I want to work on the character development between these two XD

_A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens_

* * *

"My idea of good company, Mr. Eliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." ― Jane Austen,  _Persuasion_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

Arthur had a small family. It was just him and his parents in their Prius. His mother, Alice, was a pretty, spectacled woman with a sharp tongue and long blonde hair. His father, William, was large, with curly greying hair and dark, intelligent eyes hidden under bushy eyebrows. They greeted me with warm smiles, saying quaint things like, "How do you do, m'boy?" which I found very amusing. Arthur seemed pretty embarrassed.

I sat in the back seat with Arthur, staring out of the window. Nobody spoke, but it was a comfortable silence. Arthur had fallen asleep, his head lolling against the glass, while Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland listened to old English music on the radio. I'd plugged in my earphones, running through all my favourite songs.

The English countryside whizzed past me. White and blue, the occasional cream-hued cottage. It didn't seem real, somehow. Something about this country was lost in time. I exhaled softly, watching my breath frost on the glass. I must have been smiling to myself as I stared at each snow-covered tree we drove by.

It was a weird and wonderful feeling, one I never got tired of. The words. When the words slowly emerged before me, like a picture sharpening before my eyes. Sentences forming, paragraphs weaving themselves. In my mind, the first words to my novel were growing, and I smiled wider at each little punctuation. I opened the Evernote app on my phone and started to type. They were just clouds of disembodied thought, but I always wrote them down. I had tens and tens of little notes on my phone, most of them later discarded, but others used, expanded on.

Arthur slowly opened his eyes and yawned, reaching for a bottle of water and drinking deeply. I looked at him. He looked back at me. This wasn't the first time over the past few hours we'd just gaped at each other. Neither of us really knew what to do. On one level, we were rivals. Silly, perhaps, but it was a contest important to both of us. On the other hand, Arthur and I were  _so_ alike in  _so_ many ways. We read the same things, and tended to come up with complicated opinions on them. We were both gay. Our writing styles complemented each other, as Ivan had said. There was a very real possibility that we might end up becoming friends.

Arthur glanced at his watch and asked, "Where are we, mum?"

"There's still an hour to go. Are you boys getting hungry, or will you eat lunch at home?"

Arthur glanced questioningly at me and I just shrugged. The prospect of eating English food didn't particularly enamour me, anyway. It didn't make a difference whether we stopped at a chippy or if we just went straight to Arthur's place.

When we took a moment to respond, Mr. Kirkland asked, "Antonio, what would you prefer?"

"Oh, me?" I asked, suddenly shy. They were so  _nice_. "Anything that you find convenient, really.

Mrs. Kirkland chuckled. "So shall we just go straight home?"

"Might as well," Arthur replied, taking out his mobile phone and checking his messages. I noticed how his cheeks went a little red and a small smile threatened to come upon his lips. Very obviously, Alfred had said something cute to him. I had to resist the urge to laugh.

Arthur's parents, I later learned, had also studied in our college, but they hadn't known each other back then because of their age difference and separate classes. His mother was a children's writer and his father a literary agent; that was how they'd ended up meeting, five years later. Arthur had grown up with books, and guiding eyes that taught him how to write.

"And what about you?" Mrs. Kirkland asked. "How did you become a writer?"

"Oh, um…" I started rubbing my arm as a jolt of nervousness started taking over. "Um, well…it's just something I've always done…"

I wasn't sure if my discomfort had been obvious, or if Arthur just had really good timing, because he suddenly asked, "Antonio, do they still have bullfights in Spain?" And he gave me an odd, impish smirk.

"What?" I asked. "Uh, yes. Although I think it's pretty cruel."

"And don't they have this festival where they run with the bulls? Fiesta de San Fermin?" Mr. Kirkland asked. "In Seville?"

"Pamplona," I corrected, inwardly sighing in relief as the nervous tension left me. "A cousin of mine participated in that a few years ago. We thought he was crazy, but he actually said he had a good time."

The rest of the drive passed in easy conversation. They asked me a lot about myself, because apparently I was being pretty quiet, and every time they asked about my writing, every time I tensed up, Arthur would somehow change the conversation to tortilla recipes or nightlife in Madrid.

* * *

Arthur's home wasn't too big, or too small. There were two bedrooms, an airy kitchen, two bathrooms, and TV room. Arthur had a spare bed set up in his room. It was a spacious, tidy place with a large bookshelf and desk, his cupboard, and random bric-a-brac from his youth.

I put my suitcase on the floor and looked around. "This is nice."

"It's okay," he mumbled, hauling his suitcase onto his bed. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Mum's taking out lunch; just give her a few minutes."

"Of course." I still wasn't sure what to say to this guy. Finally, "Your parents are really nice."

"Just don't get into a debate with them," he warned, looking up seriously. "I don't think anyone's  _ever_ been able to outdo their quips and comebacks. It's almost funny when they get into arguments."

I laughed at that. Another awkward silence. "Thanks for having me here."

"You're welcome," Arthur replied simply. Another pause. "I really like Christmas. It just…it's not the sort of holiday one ought to spend in that huge, lonely college." When he saw me smiling, he quickly added, "Don't get any ideas. We're still not friends."

"Don't be ridiculous," I muttered, looking away in slight annoyance. "We're definitely not friends."

"Exactly."

Lunch was surprisingly good. Lovi would hate me for saying that, of course. But between the roast chicken and constant quipping between Arthur and his family, I was thoroughly entertained.

"We're not particularly traditional," Arthur said later, flopping down on his bed after a heavy lunch. "We don't follow half the Christmas traditions most people do. What about you?"

"My family's as traditional as they come," I replied easily, propping myself against the pillows and opening my laptop. "Do you go to midnight mass?"

"Sometimes," Arthur replied simply. "We didn't go last year." He raised his head, regarding me with a curious frown. "Would you like to go?"

I didn't reply for a moment. But then I slowly said, "It's your family, your traditions. We'll do it your way."

Arthur actually sat up. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Yes, really." I opened up a new document. "Just one thing: I'm not going to sleep at all on Christmas Eve."

"Why?"

A small grin grew onto my face. " _Esta noche es Noche-Buena, y no es noche de dormir_. It's a Spanish verse. It means: this is the good night, and therefore it is not meant for sleep."

"Oh. That makes sense. So what do you do, then?"

"Celebrate. Eat." I glanced at him. "We go swinging. Actual swings are set up all over courtyards and stuff. And we basically swing. And it's always my responsibility to push Sancho—he's my cousin, he's only nine—because his legs don't touch the ground." I paused, looking away. Sancho would be upset that I wouldn't be swinging with him this year.

"We could go pubbing," Arthur offered, and I burst out laughing.

"Are you serious? On Christmas Eve's night?"

"My older cousins do that. They're all basically alcoholics, though…" he added in an undertone. "But it's the best way to celebrate, right? Pub crawls."

"God save your soul," I replied, snickering. The open MS Word document stared back at me. "You know, Ivan finds our little rivalry hilarious."

"So does Alfred," Arthur replied, staring at the ceiling. "And it's not a  _little_  rivalry. We're enemies and we want each other dead."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I agreed, waving off the comment. "But he thought it was funny because he thinks our writing styles would gel perfectly." I glanced at Arthur as I spoke. "Yours is dry and sarcastic, and mine is flowery and melodramatic."

Arthur's eyes slid in my direction. "A better word would be passionate. Angry, almost."

"Mm," I mumbled. "Let's be real here. Melodramatic." But I smiled to myself. "But I doubt I could ever co-write something with you."

"Oh god, we'd kill each other."

"What would we even write about?"

And the question sent us both into deep thought.

"Something esoteric and literary?" Arthur suggested. I groaned in boredom. He said, "Yes, I agree."

"Something emotional?"

"Emotional? I'm suspicious of emotion."

"True. Hmm."

"Adventure?" Arthur suggested softly.

"Historical," I added.

And then the two of us looked at each other.

"Pirates?" he gently asked.

"Pirates," I grinned.

We stared at each other for a very long moment.

And then the both of us burst out laughing.

* * *

Lovino was howling for ten full minutes when I told him about me staying with Arthur.

" _I mean, you—haha, oh fuck—you rant about him like a little bitch and then you—heheh, this is too funny—CHRISTMAS? Antonio, you're such a moron, hahaha!"_

"I know, I know," I laughed.

" _SUCH a moron…!"_

Henrique was a little less forgiving. I didn't tell him about being with Arthur, being with another  _person_. I just told him I was staying in London for a bit. He argued with me about coming back to Spain and how it was too late to come to Madrid now since plane tickets had skyrocketed because of Christmas season. And then mom complained to me and dad complained to me. I pretended to listen to them while playing Solitaire on my laptop.

After that annoying phone call was over and done with, Arthur said, "Wow, your family's pissed." He was sitting all the way across the room. "I could hear them shouting from here."

I just shrugged. Opening up the document again, I stared once more at the blank page, collecting my thoughts. "When did you write your first story?" I asked.

"When I was six."

"Oh, really?" I glanced up, my eyes widening in surprise. "Same here."

"Odd little coincidence. What was your about?"

I grinned at the memory. "A cat that chokes on a dragonfly and then coughs up the grossest fur-ball ever." And when Arthur turned an interesting shade of green, I added, "Based on actual events."

He rolled his eyes and snorted. "You're a git. Mine was about Flying Mint Bunny."

"Flying  _what_?"

He turned red and looked away. "It's not like yours was any better, wanker. My story was about a mint-green bunny with wings. It saved a unicorn from the evil Captain Hook."

I just stared at him. "God, you're weird."

"It's called being creative!"

* * *

The next day, Arthur demanded I wear all the warm clothes I had because we were going to see London. Properly. The streets were caked in snow and a gloomy cloud cover hung in the sky, but all the shops were lit up with fairy-lights. We went to the Brent Cross Shopping Center because Arthur was looking for Christmas presents for his family. It was way beyond my budget, but I picked out a box of chocolates for his parents too. It was only polite. Maybe spending on that wacom tablet for Lovi was a bad idea.

But the look on his face!

No way. It was the best idea ever!

After that he dragged me to Hyde Park, and then the Big Ben. "Do you skate?" he asked me seriously as we watched people zoom around on a rink.

"No. You?"

"Not at all. Alfred can, though. We came here one weekend. I nearly broke my neck, but Alfred skated around like he owned the bloody place."

"Can we get out of the cold?" I asked as a breeze hit us in the face.

"Goodness, yes."

We entered a café, where Arthur asked for tea and I took an espresso.

"You know, in Spanish, your name is Arturo?"

Arthur made a face. "Yours is Anthony."

" _Dios_ _mío._ "

When we got back to his home, I opened my laptop and wrote. For the first time in ages, I really wrote. For myself. The words flowed so seamlessly. I was hesitant at first, wondering just how honest I should be. But this was my novel, my own story. I typed and typed and typed, the keys clacking away loudly, aggressively. It was a good feeling.

I only stopped for dinner, and then Arthur sat down with his own novel as I sat with mine, both of us working silently, except for the occasional question.

"Give me a synonym for 'empathy'."

"Is it 'lied down' or 'lay down'? I always get confused."

At half-past one in the morning, I finally stopped, my fingers aching. I'd written about fifty pages. Fifty pages of pure triggering material. I felt a little ill. I was too tired, too sleepy to want to scratch, but my mood was low. Not depressed, just…down. Deflated.

I saved my document, emailed it to myself, and then as an afterthought, emailed it to Lovi, too. I was not going to risk getting into another mess and deleting my work. I would have a backup with someone I trusted beyond all reason.

_Dear Lovi,_

_Can I backup my new novel by emailing a copy to you? You can read it, but pleeeeeease don't tell me how worried you are about me. I want to tell this story. I know I've added all sorts of things to cover my tracks, but the essence of my problem is in there._

_Te amo, Lovi!_

_Antonio~_

Hitting 'send', I sighed, putting my laptop away and lying down. There were no words for this feeling. Just profound lack of motivation. And a lulling unhappiness. Like a gentle, sad melody.

"Something wrong?" Arthur asked after a few moments, glancing in my direction as his fingers left the keyboard.

"Not really," I lied. "Just a bit…tired, I guess."

"How much have you written?"

"I don't know. Seventeen-thousand words?"

"In  _one day_?" he choked.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry," I replied. Sure, the final submission date was six months away. But in the time it took me to finish this novel and then edit it some three times…There really wasn't a moment for me to waste.

"Fair enough," Arthur replied, staring at me. "Want something for your hands?"

I raised my head. "What?"

"Your hands are going to cramp up," he explained, putting his laptop aside and getting up. He left the room, and came back with a large bowl full of warm water. "Put them in this. Seriously, just do it. You won't be able to move tomorrow."

Arthur actually had a point. Typing for long stretches was not healthy. Not in the least. The last time I'd typed for this long, my whole  _arms_ ached for days. It was painful to even hold a pencil. Arthur set the bowl on his desk and I gingerly dipping my hands into it. The warm water scalded my cold skin for a few seconds, but then it gradually got easier to handle.

Arthur was looking at me strangely. "Do you mind terribly if I read what you've written?"

"Huh?" I glanced at him.

"I need a break. I've been typing for four hours. Do you mind if I read your draft?"

I stared. "Why?"

"I really liked your idea."

My lips twitched a little in concern. "Well…"

"Forget it," he muttered looking away. All his defences were up again.

"Fine," I replied. "It's called  _The Last Broken Tune_ ; you'll find it on my desktop." I motioned with my soaking fingers at my laptop, still sitting on the bed.

He gave me a tiny grin before going to my laptop and opening the story. He settled down on my bed with my computer on his lap and began to read. I watched him carefully from where I was sitting at his desk, slowly curling and uncurling my hands under water. It actually did help.

Arthur's expression began to change about five minutes into the story, just as I'd expected. First his face fell. Then his brows knitted together. And then he began to frown. It was when he started chewing his lower lip that I asked, "Where have you reached?"

"That part where he's fingering safety razors. You know, just touching their tops. Goodness, this is pretty intense, isn't it?"

That was one word for it.

"Why is he doing that?" Arthur pressed on. "That would just trigger the wanker!"

"Yeah, exactly," I said with a sigh, suddenly aware once more of how low I was feeling. "He wants to be triggered. That's the point."

"But  _why_?"

"Because," I said slowly, keeping my eyes firmly fixed to my hands in the water bowl, "It's like when you're on a diet, but you can't stop looking at sugary treats? You know, since you want them so bad? It's the same logic…"

Arthur glanced at me with searching eyes. "You really know a lot about this, don't you?"

I still didn't meet his gaze. I didn't dare. "Like I said in class, I have an old friend from school who self-harms. I know about this stuff from up close."

"Why?" Arthur asked softly, now looking at me intently. "Why does he do it?"

"No clue," I replied in a monotone. "Why don't you keep reading?"

We sat in silence for forty-five minutes. I felt time tick by. The water in the bowl became cool and I took my hands out, wiping them on a towel as I poured the water into the sink. Arthur kept reading, his eyes watering occasionally from sleep and the lighting. It was late. I was tired too.

I ended up staring out into the snow-covered street, watching for any cars. When Arthur finally sighed and I heard him shift, I glanced at him. "What did you think?"

"Very, very dark. And sad. God, it's so sad." He wasn't looking at me. Just staring at the opposite wall. "You stopped at a cliff-hanger, you wanker. I can't believe you ended that last chapter at the point where he's about to cut."

I smiled weakly. "It's always good to end a chapter at a cliff-hanger, Arthur. You know that."

"Yes, but still." Arthur paused in thought for a moment. "I can't think of any advice that could make this better. Which is odd, because I always have something to say."

"Yes, and it makes you seem so pretentious," I muttered without thinking.

He sat up ramrod straight and looked at me. "What?"

Well, if I'd started, I might as well just finish. "Yeah. That's basically why I couldn't stand you at the beginning. You seemed extremely pretentious."

Arthur just stared at me. "Define pretentious."

I shrugged. "A know-it-all. Someone who thought very highly of themselves."

He stared at me a bit more and then muttered, "Please. We both know that out of the two of us, you're the bigger narcissist."

"That's not true!"

"It is! My god, man, you're so competitive. It's insane. I don't think I've ever met anyone as competitive as you. It's like you absolutely  _have_ to be the best in the room."

Hadn't Berwald Oxenstierna said something similar? My cheeks darkened furiously. "So what? There's nothing wrong with being competitive."

"I guess," Arthur muttered, shrugging. "I'm competitive too. All of us are. That's the nature of the course, come on. And deep down, the fact of the matter is that artists tend to think they're the greatest artists ever, while also simultaneously degrading their work. It happens. I complain about being a talentless hack at least once a week."

"Wait, what?" I blinked, almost jumping to my feet in surprise. Other people…other people felt the same way too?

"Yes," Arthur went on, not noticing my reaction. "Sometimes I want to delete everything I've written and run away to Scotland or something under an assumed identity. Out of sheer embarrassment. But I know how stupid that is. Everyone – especially artists – hate themselves a little. It's all part of the profession, I suppose." But he stopped and looked at me. "But  _you_ , Antonio."

"What about me?" I was starting to feel vulnerable, attacked. I could feel adrenaline pumping through me, charging me up with energy.

"It's like you spend more time trying to outdo other people than trying to get to know them." Arthur paused for air and then continued, "How well do you even know Emil and Mei and Ivan?"

 _I know all I need to know about Ivan, thank you very much._ "Of course I know stuff about them!" I argued. "Emil's from Iceland and Mei's from Taiwan. Um, Emil…um, he likes fish. A lot. And Mei, um…"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Emil loves chocolate cake. He has this mad dream of photographing volcanic eruptions. He has an older brother who gets on his nerves. His best friend moved to Hong Kong a year ago. He dislikes horror movies but has a secret fondness for all things Disney. He has a crush on Elsa from  _Frozen_ , as it happens. He's spending Christmas in Morocco, a family holiday. Mei on the other hand loves sports. She's athletic, but she also likes typically girly things like flowers and stuff. Her favourite colour is pink. Apart from writing novels, she also does a lot of charity work. She is a secret Justin Bieber fan, though if you tease her about it she will kill you. Her favourite food is some Taiwanese delicacy I can't pronounce, but have tasted, since she invited me to lunch once to discuss her book in detail. She has a wicked sense of humour."

I crossed my arms across my chest and looked away. "Well, good for you. You're friends with them. Ivan's my friend."

"Ivan is  _everybody's_ friend," Arthur quipped. "The guy's legitimately the sweetest person I know, and that includes Madeline. My point is, you don't really talk to anyone. You just compete. It's stupid."

"Arthur, stop." My blood was full of electricity now. Nervous energy whipped through my veins. I could not scratch. I would not scratch. I'd promised Lovi. I'd promised him. Besides, I couldn't risk Arthur of all people finding out.

Maybe it was the stammer in my tone because his expression suddenly changed into one of concern. The way I was griping my shoulders must have been a dead giveaway, too.

"Do you want some chocolate?" he suddenly asked me, making me snap my head in his direction out of pure surprise. Arthur was already off the bed, going to the kitchen. "I feel like having some Skittles or something."

When he left the room, I let out a small groan. No, I couldn't do this. I had to…I had to clutch. Just a little. Just a tiny little bit. I rolled up the sleeves of my sweater and shirt, just enough to expose the skin of my wrists. Old scabs and perpetually dried-out patches of flesh dotted the area.

I didn't know how long Arthur would take to return. I had to make this quick.

I buried my nails deep into my skin, twisting inwards. Oh yes. Please, yes. After so long. I let go a few seconds later, admiring the deep half-moons I'd made. They'd become grey as the blood fled from them, but I waited for them to turn a bright, angry red. I clutched again. This release. It was heaven.

I heard Arthur's footsteps returning and I jumped into action, pulling my sleeves down and breathing slowly. Calm, calm. I had to calm down. I wasn't finished clutching, though. Once I'd started, I had to do it  _properly_. Being interrupted was the worst feeling in the world.

Arthur entered the room and tossed a packet of Skittles in my face. "But I guess you're right," he agreed as though our conversation hadn't been interrupted in the most horrible way. "Perhaps I do seem a little…pretentious. I don't mean to. It's just how I am?"

I managed a weak smile. "It's okay. You're not  _really_ pretentious."

"Why, thank you."

His tone was dripping with friendly sarcasm. Once again, our eyes met, and we laughed. Mine was a softer, shakier chuckle, but it did the trick. I felt the nervousness leave. I knew I'd be agonising over what Arthur had said for weeks, though. But now at least, I was better.

In fact,  _now_ I was drained. A proper bout of depression. It wasn't too bad. Perhaps having company helped. But it was almost three in the morning. Time to sleep, anyway. I'd feel better after rest.

"I'm going to lie down," I mumbled, going over to my bed and switching my laptop off. "Are you still going to stay awake?"

"For a bit," Arthur replied. "Let's see. I'm rather exhausted myself."

He switched off the light as I curled up into bed.

But for some annoying reason, I just couldn't sleep. Maybe it was the glow of Arthur's laptop, who knew? Maybe it was because I was turning over every little word Arthur had said. After ten minutes of this, I finally asked, "If we were to write a book about pirates together, though."

"Oh, I already have a character in mind," Arthur said with a soft chuckle. His voice pervaded through the darkness like a lighthouse. "I don't have a name yet, but he'd be an English pirate who attacks Spanish ships. Or French ships. Or both."

"But not British ships?"

"No."

"That would make him a privateer," I muttered, yawning suddenly. "A state-sanctioned pirate. There's a difference, look it up."

"Oh, there is? Fine then, he's a privateer."

I sat up, suddenly. A eureka moment. "I know! Ooh, ooh. So he's attacking a Spanish pirate ship, okay? And the Captain of that ship is fighting him, and takes him prisoner. The English guy loses his crew and everything to the Spaniard, and –"

"Typical Antonio," Arthur muttered under his breath. "You competitive wanker."

In a flash, my mind turned to the other conversation and I shut my eyes tightly to quell the small burst of nervousness. "No," I snapped, opening them and staring into the darkness. "Listen. So he takes the English guy captive, okay? And the Spanish one is in search of an island where there's buried treasure. But he doesn't have a map and has no clue where the island is."

"Oh, I see!" Arthur cried out, almost too loudly for the late hour. "But the Englishman knows where the island is, isn't it?"

"Exactly! They have to work together! Even though they hate each other!"

"We could make it a commentary on politics of the time, too. And society, perhaps."

"Yeah, good idea. We'd need an antagonist, though."

"Obviously, the British Empire – the s _tate_ – is the antagonist."

"But we need a  _pirate_ antagonist."

"Oh, yes. Hmm, let's think."

We didn't end up sleeping that night. In fact, Arthur brewed us some coffee – yes, he had some too, since the caffeine kept him awake – and we sat across from each other on the floor, the lights on, a computer with Google open between us, charting out this story we would probably never write. We did a lot of reading about the history of the times. We worked out each character's name, back-story, personality. We created antagonists and love-interests. And then we decided we didn't want love interests in a cool adventure story about pirates. So we created pets instead. I wanted my character to have a bull.

"You can't have a bull on a ship, you stupid Spaniard."

"Ships must have been so boring."

"I know, right? Who'd ever want to be a pirate?"

The hardest part was creating some sort of relationship between our characters. They just seemed to enjoy hating each other too much.

"I think we should just let them hate each other through the whole book," I said. "It would be an interesting change. These 'bonding' stories are so predictable."

"Perhaps, but come on, I can see them becoming friends."

"No, 'friends' is too nice a word."

"As much as I hate to steal from American slang – frenemies?"

I chewed my lower lip. "Okay…let's work on that angle, then. Frenemies."

We ended up falling asleep on the floor. The damn floor. Arthur's mother burst into laughter when she saw us face-first on the carpet with a computer and two cups of coffee between us.

* * *

The next day was Christmas Eve. We spent it sleeping. Eventually the two of us woke up around late afternoon and worked on our novels. When we got tired we'd switch to read what the other person had written. We stayed up very late in the night, writing. And then we'd stop and discuss our pirate story animatedly. Most of it was just research, or stupid comments like, "How did they  _wear_ rubbish like that back then?" We learnt that a 'buccaneer' was not the same thing as a 'pirate'. We learnt that the Caribbean was the hotspot for piracy, making Arthur exclaim, "That explains Captain Jack Sparrow!"

We stayed up through the night again, and when the clock struck midnight, we were in the middle of a heated argument about barracks.

"I still think it would be better if my character jails yours!" I argued.

"No, maybe injures and ties him to a post, but jailing him? Don't be ridicu – oh. Merry Christmas, you damn wanker."

Our grand plans of going to midnight mass with Arthur's parents and then going pubbing were completely quashed because they fell asleep and we were too carried away with our silly story.

I spoke to Lovi and then my family when I woke up. I spent a lot of time on both phone calls, although I talked a lot more with Lovino. I apologised to Henrique and mom and dad and all my cousins and aunts about having to stay back because of college work, and I laughed along with Lovino as he told me the funny thing Feli had said. Arthur wished Lovino as well.

The days passed much quicker than I'd anticipated, and when the New Year began, and college reopened, I realised with a happy sort of surprise that I'd had a lot of fun with Arthur Kirkland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, not much Spamano. That will come, I promise. Although probably not in the way you'd like. I really do hope you enjoyed this, because this chapter is perhaps the last truly positive chapter in this fic. From the next chapter onwards, everything is going to hell. :D Haha, I'm dropping too many hints.


	14. Things Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS AN EXTREMELY, EXTREMELY TRIGGERING CHAPTER. I'm serious. If you're prone to getting self-harm urges, please don't read it. I won't mind.

_Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe_

* * *

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break." ― William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

On the day before Arthur and I were supposed to leave for college again, Lovino called me up. Arthur was having a shower and I was randomly throwing things into my suitcase. I'd forgotten to pack. Well, that wasn't true. I'd deliberately put it off until the last minute. Packing was just so boring.

When I phone burst to life, I quickly dropped the pile of dirty shirts into the suitcase and answered it.

Before I could even say a word, Lovi launched off.

" _Okay, bastard. So I actually checked my email for once, and I saw all these emails from you. You're sending me backups of your new novel, right? And I read what you sent me. And now I have to ask: is this shit triggering you?"_

My stomach dropped to my knees. "Lovi, relax. I'm fine."

" _Antonio."_

"Really, Lovi," I reiterated, pressing the bridge of my nose. "I got a bit low the first time, but otherwise, it's okay."

" _Did you scratch?"_

I flopped down on my bed, closing my eyes as the stress ate at me. The never-ending internal debate. Should I lie? Tell the truth?

But apparently, my long pause was all the answer Lovino needed.

" _Antonio, sorry, but I don't think this is a good idea. At all."_

"Will you quit worrying?" I suddenly snapped, my eyes flashing as I shot up into a sitting position. "I'm doing this whether or not you think it's a good idea. Besides it's too late to change now. Nobody seems to comprehend that  _I don't have time to waste_. Six months seems like a long time, but it's already January, and there's a very good chance I won't be able to edit it properly if I need to submit it by June.  _Dios_ , it's like I've been speaking Romanian – because that's the only explanation for why nobody seems to  _get it_."

After a moment, I heard him patiently, sort of flatly, ask,  _"Are you done ranting now?"_

"What – I –"

" _Write it,"_ Lovino said, his tone just the slightest bit frigid.  _"But if it triggers you, I don't know if it's fucking worth it."_

"It is. It helps me, too. It clears my head."

" _Really?"_

"Really."

"... _Fine."_

"I'm sorry for snapping."

" _It doesn't matter. Forget it."_ He paused and then said,  _"Did you know Lupa has gentleman-callers?"_

The question was so random that for a moment I didn't even understand it. I just stood there, struggling to remember what the term 'gentleman-caller' even meant. After a few false starts, I stammered, "Your cat has a boyfriend?"

I heard Lovino laugh, and that made me smile.

" _That damn cat is a slut, I swear. There's this huge black tom hanging around outside the house right now. Last week it was a mean-looking grey one. The week before that it was the neighbour's calico."_

"That's so cute!"

" _You're like Feli, I swear."_

After another ten minutes of sweet, funny conversation, he cut the call, telling me he had to finish packing. I ripped out another bottle of Gatorade; I was down to my last one. Arthur entered the room, his hair a little damp, his face pink from the hot shower. He was wearing a thick black sweater and socks, and still shivering a little.

"How can you drink that garbage all the time?"

I cringed at the disgusting metallic taste of the drink. It never got better. "Low immunity," I replied automatically before going back to packing.

* * *

In the ride back to college, I talked a lot more. It always took me time to open up to people, and while I could fake confidence perfectly, it was incredibly exhausting. Now, of course, I didn't need to. I told them elaborate stories about what my cousins did, or asked them questions about the publishing business – something Arthur's father was always happy to talk about. I even gave his mother a paella recipe.

As Arthur and I waved goodbye to his parents, we walked into college, our suitcases rolling alongside us, a comfortable silence in the air.

Which was broken by a completely expected interference.

"ARTIE!"

Alfred threw himself onto Arthur with such force that both of them actually fell, landing heavily onto the corridor as Arthur's suitcase clattered to the side.

Never mind the weird looks the three of us were getting. Arthur looked beetroot as Alfred peppered him with kisses. I took in the whole scenario, and then burst into laughter. I just heard Arthur's cries of 'let me go, you bloody git!' and 'Alfred, you're crushing my ribcage!' I actually had to cover my mouth to try and stop snickering.

Such introductions, however, were in abundance. Gilbert and Francis glomped me too. Gilbert had a tan; apparently they'd vacationed in Greece. Francis looked chic and cool as ever, smelling of roses, as he always did. And then I hugged Jeanne and Madeline, too. Someone was passing around chocolate cookies. I wasn't sure whose they were; I just ate them.

"Where's Lovino?" I asked.

"I think I saw him go to your apartment?" Madeline voiced, her face turning into a small smirk. "I bet you're dying to see him."

I didn't even reply. I just grabbed my bags and ran.

The smell of pasta was so familiar that I almost laughed. Lovino's head jerked up in surprise, his eyes widening and then his face turning red.

"Looooovi!" I cried, and attacked him in the same way Alfred had attacked Arthur. I heard him shriek, but just having him in my arms, placing kisses all over his face, was perfection. "Lovi, Lovi, Lovi," I chimed, pecking him every time I said his name.

"Holy fuck," he squealed, trying to wriggle away. "Let me go!"

"I missed yooooou. How was break?"

"You idiot, we spoke on the phone almost every day." He finally managed to get away from me (only because I let him). I watched him breathe heavily to try and bring down the ferocious blush spreading all over his face. He looked away, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. "Christmas sucked, though."

My face fell. "Aw, why?"

"Grandpa and his Feli favouritism. And the fact that…" but he blushed deeper, mumbled something in Italian, and went back to making his pasta.

"The fact that?" I prompted, coming up from behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist.

"The fact that you weren't there. Antonio, god, if you smirk, I will kill you."

I laughed, burying my head in the crook of his neck. "I missed you like crazy, too.  _Te amo_ , Lovi!"

" _Ti amo_ ," he replied softly, "Now go put your things away and let me finish making this."

* * *

"Do you have a New Year's Resolution?" I asked, swallowing some pasta.

"Well, yeah? I told myself I wouldn't cuss. It's my resolution every fucking year. And naturally that didn't last for more than ten minutes."

I laughed. "You're soooo cute."

"Yeah, yeah, you mentioned. About a hundred times."

"But it's true! You're cute!"

"A hundred-and-one."

"I didn't make a resolution," I informed him, continuing to eat.

"It's a dumb practice anyway."

I just grinned in agreement.

* * *

Three days later, the classes began. There was a restless hum between us as we filed in and took our seats, Emil recounting his experience of riding a camel, while Mei laughed about how tanned he'd become in Morocco. Arthur and I didn't talk, except for me putting in the occasional comment and him refuting me. But in a nice, friendly way.

Emma walked in last, five minutes late. She said, "Happy New Year, guys. I hope you all had fun! Oh, Emil, your tan looks nice." She laughed. She took her seat and smiled at all of us, her eyes dimming just a little in confusion as she asked, "Where's Ivan?"

The question seemed almost absurd to me.

And for one horrifying second, it seemed all too valid.

Where  _was_ Ivan? I hadn't seen him since we got back. I shot Arthur a nervous glance, and his expression mirrored mine. Mei frowned, taking out her cell phone, perhaps to call him.

Except, there was a sharp ring and suddenly Emma jumped, startled. She scrambled for her purse and pulled out her own mobile phone. "I thought I switched this off," she muttered, smiling at us apologetically before her face frowned at the caller ID. "I need to take this."

She put the phone to her ear.

"Hello, yes? – Well, I was about to start a class, so – But can't it wait? – It's urgent? – Very well, fine. I'm on my way." She sighed loudly as she lowered her phone. "Sorry, something's come up. I'll be back in a few minutes."

After she left, Mei tried calling Ivan, but his phone was switched off. But Emil asked her a question and she got distracted. Somehow, conversation flowed gently, an easy exchange of anecdotes. Mei and Emil were extremely amused when they found out how Arthur and I ended up staying together for Christmas.

"After all that arguing…" she said with a grin, shaking her head. "I'll never understand boys." Mei spent her Christmas break in Taiwan, mostly hanging out with her school-friends and writing. "It was perfect. I just wanted to relax after that insane semester. But I hear this one's going to be worse. Plus, there's that culture festival thing…have you guys started on what you're going to submit for that anthology?"

We shook our heads.

"Frankly I've been writing so much that I'm all out of new ideas," Arthur said. "I almost don't want to write anything for this anthology."

"I need to start editing," Emil muttered, rolling his eyes. "It's such a pain."

I was about to say something, but there was a noise that stopped me. From outside the classroom, we could hear high voices talking quickly. More than volume, though, they carried an air of fevered terror, the sort of panicked delirium of a nightmare. All four of us looked up in curiosity as Emma Manon was followed by Alebard Eichel – the dean – and a big-chested woman carrying a plastic bag.

One, two, three.

Three people who looked the way they shouldn't have.

Emma was harried. Her blonde hair had fallen out of its usual state, like she'd run her hands through it repeatedly. There was an alcoholic flush to her cheeks and her eyes were bloodshot. Dr. Eichel just looked stressed. He was trying and failing to keep a poker face, but from the frown on his lips and the curl of his eyebrows, there was no denying his state of mild panic.

The woman's face was damp, her nose a little red. She'd been crying. She'd been crying only moments ago.

Emma slid wordlessly into her seat, staring straight ahead and avoiding eye-contact. She looked like she was in a trance.

"Right," Dr. Eichel said softly. "Class."

We looked at him.

He wore the expression of a man who wanted to be absolutely anywhere but here.

"I…I'm afraid I…" he began, stuttering. I could see his words slip away from him, like he was trying to reach out for the right phrase, the right term, only to have it trickle out of his grasp like oil.

"Ivan's dead."

Emma's words tumbled forward like a loose animal. They attacked the room with the explosive force of a nuclear bomb, and the silence that followed was Hiroshima's legacy.

For an entire second, nobody reacted.

And then all hell broke loose.

" _What_?"

"How can he –"

"You can't be serious –"

"Guys," Emma said. Her voice was so soft, so tired. But somehow, it seemed to have the right effect. Mei, who had her hand over her mouth, Emil, who was clutching the table tightly. Arthur who looked like he might throw up. And me. I just kept turning the words over in my mind.

_Ivan's dead._

_I-V-A-N-apostrophe-S-space-D-E-A-D_

_Ivan is dead._

_Ivan._

_Is._

_Dead._

"Guys," Emma whispered, and a tear trickled out of her eye. "He…he…" her voice cracked.

"He slit his wrists," Dr. Eichel said quietly. "Over Christmas."

Oh god.

Oh god.

Oh god.

"His sister, Yakaterina," he gestured towards the woman, who was looking at the floor, "Said he left some things for all of you."

Oh god.

Oh god.

Oh my god.

"T-things?" I stammered. "No…what…" My voice was dry. My hands were cold. I was shaking.

"Yes," Yakaterina mumbled, discreetly wiping a tear. She opened the plastic bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. "He…he made a list, and…um…I should just…" she gave up trying to explain herself. She merely put the bag on Ivan's desk –  _Ivan's desk oh god where he sits and talks and laughs and writes and reads Ivan's not dead he's alive he's there I remember I know he was alive just weeks ago oh god oh god oh god –_ "Um, this scarf was his favourite," she mumbled, pulling it out of the bag. "It's for…Mei?" she looked at the girl.

"I can't." Mei's voice broke. "How the hell can I even wear that? Oh god. I never should have told him how nice it was…no…"

Emil took it from Yakaterina and passed it to Mei. She refused to touch it, so he just kept it on her desk.

"But why?" Arthur suddenly blurted. " _Why_?" He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. "It doesn't make any  _sense_. Jesus fuck, tell me this is a dream. Ivan  _can't_ be dead. It's just not  _possible_."

Emma got to her feet, putting a hand on Arthur's back. "There, there. Try to calm down."

"CALM DOWN?"

"Arthur, please," Emil said quietly, lowering his eyes. "Please."

Strength seemed to leave Arthur's body. He pulled his chair back up and sank into it, burying his head on the table.

Yakaterina was crying again. She wiped her eyes and shakily went on, "There's a clicking pen…It's for Emil." She looked around, trying to see who Emil was. When he blanched and dropped his jaw, she handed it to him.

This was not happening. This was a sick joke. Or a nightmare. Yes, exactly. And Lovi would shake me awake saying something like, "Stop shouting in your sleep, bastard." I shut my eyes, waiting for the curl of his Italian accent to wake me up, take me away, protect me.

But instead, I knew.

I knew what every single little present was.

The scarf. The clicking pen. A plant. The vatrushka recipe.

And something for me.

Oh god.

"And the list asked me to give you a sapling, Arthur…I wasn't sure what to buy…so, well, I bought violets." She took out an extremely small china pot, decorated with bright splashes of colour. A tiny little plant was hidden there. She placed it on Arthur's desk, and he raised his head like it took superhuman effort.

"Professor Manon," she mumbled, "This is what Ivan wanted to give you." She took out a pretty yellow sheet of paper with something written on it. "He loves vatrushka. I – I mean, he did. Um, this was his favourite recipe."

Emma took it with trembling hands.

"Um, that leaves Antonio." She looked around and then her eyes found me. "Um…it's…it's a letter," she said quietly, taking a small white envelope out of the bag. "I didn't read it."

I didn't take it. I couldn't lift my arm.

Mei took it from her and placed it before me, not meeting my eyes.

"Why?" Mei asked, shaking. "God, this doesn't seem real. Why would he do that? Why would he do that? This is  _our_  Ivan?"

Yakaterina looked away. "I don't know."

My head fell forward, sinking to the desk. The letter fell to the floor. Every drop of energy left me. I could hear my heartbeat in my head. Roar, roar, roar, I could hear it say.

"Class…dismissed," Emma mumbled, although her voice sounded very distant. "Oh Christ, class dismissed…"

Emil was the first to leave. In fact, he bolted out, taking the clicking pen with him. He didn't take his bag or his tab or anything. He just ran. Mei stood next, taking Emil's things and her own. "I can't…I can't touch it," she sobbed, looking at the scarf on her desk.

"Let me," Arthur said gently, shakily, as he got to his feet. He took his bag and plant, and then picked up the scarf like it was a wounded bird. "Antonio?" he asked.

I sat up and took my bag. I dived for the letter, and turned the envelope in my hands. It was unmarked, the opening taped shut.

This was not happening. This was not happening. This wasn't  _real._

Ivan killed himself.

Ivan committed suicide.

Ivan slit his wrists.

And I was the only one who could have prevented it. The only one who could have known. I was the only person who'd seen his scars. I'd helped him during that depression episode. I'd watched how he chose each person's keepsake. Christmas presents, he'd said. And I believed him. I believed him.

" _It's funny, but I have this dream. Goal, you could say. I want to read Anna Karenina at least thrice before I die."_

There was an explosion, an electric explosion of adrenaline inside my veins. I gasped, almost buckling. Mad terror gripped me. I almost cried out in fear. Fear. What was I afraid of?

I could have stopped this. I could have stopped this. I could have stopped this.

"I need to go," I blurted out, and I was running out of the classroom before anyone even responded.

* * *

There was no thought process. Only raw desperation. Make the pain stop. Make it end. Help me breathe. I couldn't. I tried to capture oxygen, tried to make it stay in my lungs. But I was shaking, almost hyperventilating. I threw myself into the apartment. It was so quiet. But I was noise. I was chaos. I was a tornado.

I needed to cut.

Nothing else would stop this.

I needed to cut.

Tossing my bag, the letter somewhere in my room, I bolted into the bathroom, my hands quaking so badly that as I reached for the medicine cabinet I ended up knocking bottles of things over. My stash of shaving razors. I pulled out a brand new one, one I'd just bought the other day. Something to break this.

The last time I'd cut, I'd used a knife to break the razor open. But that took too long. I needed to breathe. I needed to cut  _now_. Something else.

I darted about the apartment, my eyes scanning everything without actually taking in what I was seeing. Books. Papers. TV remote. Paints. Geometry box. Electric kett—wait. I turned sharply, looking at the geometry box on the table. Lovi didn't even use that thing.

I tore at it, pulling out the compass and uncapping its sharp point. This would probably work. I set the razor face-first onto the table and jammed the compass's edge into the plastic protective covering. It went right in, and I twisted. Again, again. Blue plastic shards flew all over the place. The razor's head snapped off from the handle but I didn't stop, I didn't stop, I didn't stop until I heard a firm _crack_ and suddenly a silver blade slipped out.

I picked it up.

Silver, small, sharp. Slightly bent at the corner from where the compass had nicked it.

As soon as I held it between my fingers, the world seemed to drain of colour. The roaring  _terror panic hate swirling tornado hurricane nightmare_  feeling died, like a car braking abruptly. There was a blade in my hands. This was no longer a fantasy. This was no longer something I dreamed of doing every minute of every day.

I had the power, the ability. I could do this now. It was like Ivan had given me his permission.

I went to my bedroom and shut the door. I sunk to the floor, my back against the bed. I pulled off my jacket. Rolled up the sleeves. I could have stopped. Shock was keeping me from having a panic attack. I could have stopped. I deliberated. Should I cut? Should I not?

And then I decided I would.

This happened the last time, too. As I put the blade against my skin, a jolt of fear kept me from using it. I could never understand this fear, even back then.

I tried again. My left arm was exposed. Where to cut? Everywhere seemed perfect. I chose a spot on the right side of my forearm. Not the wrist, like I had dreamed. I was still too nervous. I had to first get myself used to it.

I pressed the blade in. I didn't drag it; I just held it there. Deep enough so that when I pulled back, there was a line of white that was slowly turning red. Too shallow. Completely painless. No, I needed more.

This time, I positioned the blade a little higher. I dug it in as deep as I dared to and then pulled. The sudden fire of pain shocked me. It seemed sharper, more painful, than I'd remembered. When I stopped, there was a white flash and then a plume of red, pooling out so quickly that I could only stare.

No. I needed more.

I was still electric and maddeningly scared.

I needed more.

I cut a little higher this time, and a little deeper. The burn of the blade splitting me open was extraordinary. There was no way to compare it to anything else. It was just its own special sort of pain. It was the whole  _point_. If I could just feel this pain without having to cut, I wouldn't be in this mess.

But no. Cutting was the only way.

Again. The fourth time. I went higher still. Blood ran down the length of my arm. Even though I'd rolled the sleeve up, it stained the shirt – the white shirt – and I just watched it. Absently, I touched the wounds. Blood was so warm. And so sticky, just like books always said it was. I wiped my bloodstained fingers on my dark jeans.

And I cut again. This one really did hurt. I went much deeper, and gasped out in pain – the unpleasant kind – as red spilled out of it.

Would these scar? Please, I wanted scars. Proper scars. Not little white lines that nobody noticed, but heavy, raised marks. I wanted them on my forearms. I wanted them to be like Ivan's.

Ivan. Ivan. Ivan.

Anger.

I cut again. And again. This time, however, I did what I'd always dreamed of doing. I was ready now. The little incisions I'd wanted at my wrists. The small, tiny little cuts. I had to be careful. I didn't dare go too deep. I held the blade at only one side of my wrist, the left side, staring into my skin to see where the important veins and arteries were. I couldn't afford to slit them, after all.

One, two, three. I stopped after that.

How many cuts now? Nine. Nine cuts. And so deep.

Blood spilled off my arm and onto the carpeted floor.

I inhaled sharply. How was I going to clean that up?

I inhaled again, letting the air pass into me. I could breathe. I was calm. My mind was calm. I was drained, god, I was so drained. But at least I was no longer in pain. My head felt heavy. I just wanted to pass out on the floor.

But that would be irresponsible.

I staggered to my feet, pocketing the blade. I wasn't about to get rid of this any time soon. Stumbling, dazed, I went to the bathroom. The blood wouldn't stop. It just kept flowing, kept flowing. How long before it clotted?

I needed to bathe. That might help.

Drops of blood slipped off me and onto the bathroom tiles as I stumbled into the shower, barely managing to take my shirt off. I hung my jeans carefully, the blade still in the pocket. The hot water stung my arm, but I simply did not care.

I'd finally done it.

 _Finally_.


	15. The Unconsoled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might be triggering too. It doesn't have any actual scenes like the last one did, but still…I'm not really sure. Read with caution, I guess.

_The Unconsoled – Kazuo Ishiguro_

* * *

"Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope." ― Maya Angelou

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I hadn't thought this through, had I? When the blood wouldn't come off my sleeve, I dumped the shirt in a bucket of warm water, adding generous amounts of stain remover. I usually kept band-aids with me but now I couldn't find any, so I dried myself off, wore tracks and a long-sleeved shirt, and rummaged around for bandages. Lovi always kept those around. I was shaky. I was feeling downright ill. The deeper few of my cuts were still trickling blood, but the bath had helped clotting it.

My hands were shaking so much I could barely clean the wounds, and I did an absolutely terrible job of wrapping them up with the bandages. I'd decided I'd leave the shirt to soak for ten minutes or so. And while it did that, I had to clean up my mess. And  _fast_.

I went to the living room, picked up the remains of the razor and carelessly dropped it into the empty trashcan. I studied it; was it particularly visible? No, the garbage bag seemed to smother the plastic, hiding it from view. Then I put Lovi's geometry box back in place. I felt like I was half-asleep. The same heavy, slow feeling that made it impossible to think. I could barely stand.

I went to my room next, trying to figure out what on earth I was going to do about the bloodstains on the carpet floor. They weren't too obvious, or too large. I took my shoes and placed them very strategically over the marks. That would have to work for now.

I checked the time. Still seven minutes to go. I couldn't keep my weight up any longer.

I staggered to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Five minutes of shut-eye. I'd check on my shirt after that.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

Man, I'd missed this. Home was great, of course. Seeing Feli and  _nonno_ and even stupid little Lupa made me happy. But naturally, my grandfather's incessant need to talk about Feliciano and only Feliciano grated on my nerves, until I was running for two hours twice a day, just to get out of the house.

But now, back in class, I was in my element. We were discussing different styles of painting –  _again_ – and after some long drawn-out debate about whether minimalistic art could actually be called art at all (initiated by Yao), and three hours of talking about the artistic potential of every little experience we had during the Christmas break, the bell finally rang.

Madeline and I ran into Alfred, who was looking a little puzzled. "You guys seen Artie anywhere? I was waiting for him outside his class, y'know, cause I wanted to surprise him and take him out somewhere, but their classroom is shut."

"What do you mean 'shut'?" I asked, falling into pace with the siblings.

"I mean shut. Closed. Empty. Locked. It's like they didn't even have class today."

"Maybe they've shifted classrooms," Madeline explained. "Francis was telling me how that happened to the theatre group."

"Yeah, but that's because their usual class is being renovated," Alfred argued.

"Whatever. There's only one place those damn writers will be now. Let's go to the dining hall." I took out my phone anyway, texting to ask where Antonio was.

As we entered the dining room, we saw three of them. They were extremely easy to spot. The girl of the group – Mei, I think? – was curled up next to that guy from Iceland. She had her head buried in his shoulder. He looked like he was in a trance, his eyes wide and unseeing as he clicked a pen. Arthur was sitting next to them, rubbing Mei's hand, but his face was pale and his eyes rimmed with red.

"Something happened," Madeline declared as we approached.

Arthur glanced up at us, not even managing a smile as he saw Alfred.

The American was frowning as he sat down next to Arthur. "Artie? What's wrong?"

"I…erm…" he managed to mumble before his eyes flooded again and he looked away.

"Goodness, Arthur," Madeline cried softly as she sat opposite him. "Hey, what's going on?"

Was I the only one who noticed the weird sapling on the table, and that scarf. Didn't it look suspiciously like –

"It's Ivan…" Arthur replied quietly, and the sound of his name made the Icelandic guy (Emil, wasn't it?) exhale a loud, shuddering breath. Arthur glanced at him and went on, "Ivan, he…killed himself."

Of all the things I was expecting, that wasn't it.

Alfred went very pale, very fast. Madeline's jaw dropped.

I sank down on the bench next to Maddie, gaping at the writers.

And slowly, with enormous difficulty, Arthur began to tell us about their horrific class today. Emil and Mei chipped in when Arthur simply couldn't. By the end of it, Arthur was sobbing into Alfred's shoulder, and Emil broke down too, with Mei softly whispering to him as she rubbed his back.

"Where is Antonio?" I could hear my ears ringing.

"He left, I think. Went to your apartment," Arthur replied softly after a bit.

"You really should check on him," Alfred said, but I was on my feet before he could even finish talking.

I was in shock. I barely even knew Ivan, but this was just…god. Fuck. I knew this feeling. The haunting disbelief. How someone who was alive one day was dead the next. And by their own hand, too. I tried running to Antonio, but my body wouldn't let me. I walked. Slow, quiet. Listening to my heartbeat.

I could hear my grandmother's laughter in the air, like she was a ghost. Or maybe the past was the ghost. Or maybe I was. The apartment door opened easily, and I saw Antonio asleep on the couch. Was he depressed? Of course. His friend had just killed himself.

I just stared at him for a long, sad moment.

And then I went to my room, stripped the blanket off my bed, and draped it over him. From the deep frown on his face, he was having a nightmare. I almost considered waking him up, but then I didn't. How would a dream be any different from his reality? I slowly put my bag on the table, thinking. Maybe I'd make him something nice to eat when he woke up. He always refused to eat after his depressive bouts, and getting him to have anything except Gatorade was damn near impossible.

What would I make for him? Pasta and pizza came to mind, but then I shook my head. Maybe something Spanish, if I could. Or would a full meal be too much? How about soup?

Soup was a good idea. Chicken soup. Good for the soul. I almost made tomato soup instead, because I knew he liked that more. But  _nonna's_ homemade chicken soup came to mind. I was feeling so fucking nostalgic.

Just as I was putting the final touches to the soup, I heard a shuddering gasp from the couch and I turned. Antonio was still asleep, but his face was scrunched up and he was breathing rapidly, his palms curling up in enormous distress.

"Antonio," I ran to him, sitting beside him and shaking him awake. "Antonio, it's okay. Wake up. It's just a nightmare."

His eyes snapped open and he stared at me, like he couldn't understand what I was doing here. "Lovi?" he croaked, sitting up suddenly. "Oh god, what time is it? Why are you here, don't you have class?"

I frowned. "Class ended ages ago, silly."

His eyes widened in actual alarm.

"What!?" he cried, throwing himself off the couch. Except he was so out of it that he stumbled, almost falling. He managed to collect himself before I could steady him, though.

"I heard about Ivan," I said softly. "God, I'm so sorry. I've made you soup, okay? You're going to eat."

He always protested about that. But this time, he looked like he hadn't even heard me. Instead, he stared at the opposite wall. No, no. On closer inspection, his eyes were at the bathroom door.

"Antonio?" I took his arm. "Come sit down."

As I tugged on his sleeve, two things happened at the same time.

The first was that Antonio gasped, yanking his arm away so quickly that it seemed like a reflex.

The second was that I felt a knot underneath the shirt. And a sort of roughness that wasn't skin.

Antonio was looking at me like a cornered animal, his eyes bright and panicky, alternatively throwing his gaze towards the bathroom door. I frowned, staring at him, and then looking towards the bathroom. Something was going on.

"What?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"N-nothing," he stammered, trying to appear nonchalant as he made his way towards the toilet.

"Antonio, what?" I grabbed his sleeve again.

This time he really did yank his arm away, letting out a small cry.

We looked at each other. One heart-stopping moment.

And then at the same time, the two of us bolted for the bathroom.

Antonio was panicky, sure, but he was also tired. I managed to push past him effortlessly, forcing my way into the bathroom before he could stop me. The sight of the bloodstained shirt sleeve in a bucket of water made my whole body go cold.

Antonio did not resist. He just stood behind me. When I turned to stare at him, he was clutching his arm, pressing it, chewing his lower lip, trying not to cry.

"You cut." It wasn't a question. As the words left my mouth, pure raw anger filled me up. "You fucking cut."

He didn't reply. He didn't deny it. He just wiped his eyes quietly, looking at the floor.

"Lift your sleeve."

He took a step back.

"Lift your sleeve. Now."

It was my glare. I knew I shouldn't have been so obviously angry. I was making things worse, I knew it. But I was just so maddeningly  _furious_ with him. His shirt was so, so red. There were fucking bloodstains on the bathroom floor. Antonio was withdrawing, I could see it from his body-language. He took another step back, giving me this horrid deer-in-the-headlights expression, a look I'd never imagined on him.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Calm down. Calm down. Don't scare him. Listen to him. Understand. Breathe. Lovino, fucking relax already.

"Please," I managed, my voice softer, kinder.

It seemed to work. Antonio's trembling fingers pulled his sleeve up, and I saw the haphazard, untidy bandage, and fresh blood leaking through it. Something broke inside me in that moment. I almost started crying. He dropped the sleeve suddenly, looking away.

"Don't shrink me," he muttered through his soft tears. "I don't want to talk about it."

How was I supposed to handle this situation? What was I supposed to do? This was exactly what grandpa had warned me against. Bottling it all up. Letting Antonio stew in his sadness alone. But if I was to push Antonio, he could just have another breakdown.

Holy fuck, what was this? What was happening? Ivan, Antonio. Jesus.

Okay, focus on the situation at hand, Lovino.

"We need to redo those bandages," I said, trying to be as calm and as gentle as I could.

Antonio took another step back. "No. Let it be." His eyes were darting about, as though he was looking for an escape route.

"You'll get an infection. You've not done a very good job."

"I don't care."

"Antonio," I said softly. "What's done is done. Let's fix what's left, okay?"

"I don't want to talk about this!" Antonio shouted, his eyes flashing in a dangerous shade of green. "Go away! Leave me alone!"

"And what would you do if I were to leave you alone?" I asked, trying to keep my voice free from judgement.

"Sleep," he mumbled, looking away. "I'm tired. I'm depressed."

"All right. How about we fix up your arm and then you can sleep?"

"No! Forget the fucking arm!"

Antonio was  _swearing_? Okay, this really wasn't helping him calm down.

"All right." I lifted my hands up in mock surrender. "Have some soup."

"I'm not hungry."

 _Yes, well, I don't fucking care,_ I wanted to say, but of course I couldn't. I needed to radiate rainbows and sunshine, for fuck's sake. This was impossible. Antonio was completely shielding himself from me. And I had to address this situation  _now_. If I waited until tomorrow, he'd completely close off. I couldn't let that happen.

"Just a bit," I pleaded, approaching him. My heart broke when he took yet another step away, almost like I was going to hurt him. "Come on, it's okay. Do you want to know about my day?" I asked. Maybe distracting him would help?

"I don't want to talk. About anything."

"All right." I bridged the distance between us by taking his hand. I literally felt him tense up. "We won't talk. Let's just eat."

As we sat at the table, Antonio picked up his bowl of soup and started towards his room. I took my own bowl and followed him.

"Leave me alone!" he cried as I entered. "God, I don't want to talk, I don't want your sympathy, I don't want anything! Just let me be!"

"You know I'm not going to do that," I replied simply, pulling up a chair from his desk as he curled up on the bed with his feat under him and his soup bowl placed dangerously on the mattress. He was just so  _scared_.

He just gaped at me for a few moments, and I could literally see how helpless and terrified he was feeling. When Antonio looked away, he just stirred his soup slowly. He didn't actually take a sip until I asked him to. This always required so much coaxing. At least he'd drink the damn Gatorade without complaining because he knew he needed it. But actual food? When he was  _depressed_? Just forget about it.

"Ivan slit his wrists, Ivan slit his wrists, Ivan slit his wrists," he suddenly blurted, covering his face with his hands as he sobbed. "Ivan died. Ivan died. Ivan died."

"Antonio, shush." I put my soup away and curled up next to him, holding him as he sobbed. He cried for a long time. Or maybe it felt like a long time, because I just hated the sounds he was making. Antonio's laugh was always so much better. Antonio's laugh was music. He should never cry.

By the time he stopped, the soup had become cold, and his stupid bandage had almost completely unravelled.

"We really need to redo that," I declared, and watched his skin turn paper white with terror.

"No, it's okay." He shook his head vigorously.

"Antonio, there are a million things  _not okay_ about what's going on right now, and we're going to focus on the little stuff first. We are not arguing about this," I added when he opened his mouth to protest. "Wait here."

When I came back with the first-aid box, Antonio had kept his untouched soup bowl on the table and curled up on his bed, crying silent tears. I actually had to help him sit up, he was that tired. He sat against the wall, his eyes closed, his sleeves rolled up, his head facing upwards slightly.

I unrolled the bandage on his arm and an involuntary gasp escaped me.

"Christ, Antonio!"

There were at least  _nine_ cuts, small and thin at first, but then getting longer and deeper. Antonio winced at my reaction, and I instantly clamped my mouth shut. He'd even cut near his wrist, although the blood there had clotted, so I knew he hadn't cut anything major.

I dabbed some cotton balls with antiseptic lotion. There was dried blood all over his skin, but a couple of wounds were still leaking. Actually they'd probably reopened after Antonio had pressed them tightly before.

As I started to clean the wounds, Antonio began wincing, chewing his lip, wincing, hissing. It was too much. I stopped. "Are you all right?"

"It hurts," he murmured.

"I'm almost done," I lied.

Cleaning those cuts made me run through almost the entire roll of cotton. Well, it was getting over, anyway, but still. I went back to the bathroom and fished out another one, padding his injuries carefully before I started bandaging them.

Antonio had become so quiet I almost thought he'd fallen asleep. I tied the knot, and gently traced lines on the exposed skin of his arm.

 _A-N-T-O-N-I-O,_ I wrote.  _I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U._

I heard a very soft laugh, a very, very, very soft laugh. When I glanced up, there was an impossibly tiny smile on his face. He reached out, taking my hand in his and rolling up my sleeve.

 _L-O-V-I-N-O,_ he wrote.  _S-O-R-R-Y._

That was it. Tears flooded my eyes and I had to turn away, lest he see them. I wiped my face hurriedly, terrified of what his reaction would be. Antonio didn't like it when I cried either. He'd hate himself even more if I started because of  _him._

But Antonio didn't stir. He still sat there with his eyes closed and his breaths long and heavy.

When I collected myself, I took his arm again.

_T-A-L-K-T-O-M-E._

"I don't know what to say," he answered, his voice hoarse.

"Just tell me anything. Anything that's on your mind."

"I don't want to."

"You should," I said quietly. "If not to me, than to someone else. Gilbert or Francis, perhaps. Should I call them?"

"No!" Antonio's eyes opened in a flash, and he caught my shoulders tightly. He looked downright hysterical. "Do NOT tell them about this. Please, no!"

"Okay, okay! Calm down! Nobody needs to know. But you  _have_ to talk to someone. Please."

He let go of me and looked away. "Ivan left me a letter."

I exhaled softly, relieved. "Did you read it?"

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"No."

"Okay."

He tugged at his collar. "Please leave me alone, Lovi."

"Antonio…"

"I just need to be alone."

I just looked at him. Took him in. Antonio was completely, totally broken. There was no other word for it. He was exhausted and terrified. He was reeling from the death of a friend. He was in actual physical pain from his damn cuts. And he didn't want to talk to me.

What was I supposed to do? What would anyone do?

"I…fine…" I said quietly, hating myself. "Half an hour. And I'm leaving the door open, don't you dare shut it."

He knew it was the best deal he was going to get. He regarded me carefully, studying my expression, probably wondering if he could manipulate me into giving him a little more time. But then he finally sighed and mumbled, "Okay."

I leaned forward, pressed a soft kiss on his lips. He didn't kiss back, but I heard him exhale softly.

As I walked out of the room, I stood in despair. The living room looked so fucking normal. How could it look like that? Not a trace of blood or blades or…

Oh.

Right.

I went to the bathroom. Looking pointedly away from the still-soaking shirt, I began hunting around. Blades, blades. I opened the medicine cabinet, where Antonio had very obviously ripped open a new packet of safety razors. I took one out. How the hell did he even break this? I brought it closer to my eye, studying it. I knew how it was made, it was easy to tell. This particular brand enclosed the blades within two rows of plastic, screwed together from the inside. The only way to break it apart would be to use some sort of lever.

But what could be small enough to fit through that tiny gap between the two plastic pieces? A knife? A scissor? I took the razor with me, examining it further. First I tried opening it by shoving a knife through, but I almost sliced off my thumb so I kept that away. The scissor was flat-out too big.

I exhaled loudly, opened the dustbin, and dumped the razor in. It was still perfectly usable, but it disgusted me. That stupid shit used for fucking  _grooming_ had hurt Antonio. Antonio had been sliced open by a fucking cosmetic appliance.

I went back to the bathroom, but stopped outside Antonio's door. From this angle I couldn't actually see him, but I didn't hear anything. What was he thinking? What had happened?

But other questions plagued me too. Primarily: did he still have the blade, and was it in there with him? Was he  _using_ it? No, he wouldn't do that, right? He'd already cut. A lot. He was done for now. Right? Please, please.

I had to keep myself busy, or I was going to lose my head.

So I went back to the bathroom. The bloodstains on the floor. A wave of nausea hit me, but I swallowed. I threw water all over it, sighing in relief as the last of the blood went down the drain. Now that shirt. What would I do with it? Part of me just wanted to burn it. Anyway, it was beyond saving. But I just left it there. I couldn't touch it. I just couldn't.

This was so insane.

I felt so powerless.

Antonio was in his room, doing god knows what, thinking god knows what, and I was just standing around in the bathroom, my fists balled, as tears sprung from my eyes.

I shut the bathroom door and locked it. I needed a bit of privacy too.

I cried and cried and cried, trying to be as soft as I could. I cried for Ivan, for Antonio, for myself. For the situation. I just sobbed. I wept for  _nonna_ , I wept for  _nonno_. I wept because I could empathise with him so much now.

And when I was finally done, I washed my face and stumbled out.

I went to make some hot chocolate for the two of us. Antonio's alone-time was up, anyway.

When I entered his room with two cups, Antonio was asleep. He'd curled up, hugging a pillow. But his bandage was still in place, and even though his skin had a tint of grey, he looked more or less peaceful. I stared at him for a moment, and then put the cups on his table. When I cuddled up into the covers with him, he let out a soft exhale and pulled me closer, as though this was just an ordinary display of affection.

"Antonio," I whispered softly. "Hey, wake up. I made you hot chocolate." I shook his shoulder until his eyes fluttered open. They seemed dazed, a little confused, but then he focused on my face and I saw the light of understanding shine in his irises.

"Lovi…"

"Hey," I smiled, kissing his forehead. "Have some hot chocolate. Get something in your stomach."

"I really don't want anything."

"Antonio, you are going to drink or eat something," I said firmly. "If you want something else, just tell me and I'll make it. But there's no way I'm letting you stay hungry, okay? Especially not right now."

He sat up and drank the hot chocolate without another word of protest. He seemed better now. But he still held himself at a distance, refused to make eye-contact.

"You broke a safety razor, didn't you?"

He tensed and almost dropped the cup. "How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess," I muttered, pulling my knees to my chest. "How the hell did you even break it open?"

Antonio took a shuddering breath but didn't say anything. In fact he actually turned his back to me, but I caught a glimpse of his expression. What I saw was guilt. Raw, overwhelming guilt.

"Antonio? Come on, please talk to me."

"I, um, I used a knife," he said quickly. Too quickly. That bastard had never been a good liar. "Um, you see, when you jam the knife's blade into the gap between the plastic and twist it, the…um, plastic snaps open."

My initial assumption, then. But something was wrong. He wasn't being truthful. I knew. I just knew.

I swallowed. For now, I'd just humour him.

"Does your arm hurt?"

"I'm fine!" he answered in a high voice. "Don't worry! I'm fine!"

"Antonio?"

He put his cup aside and turned. "I'm okay, really." His eyes were bright. Too bright. There were tears in them.

"Come here," I said quietly, and before he could react, I pulled him into a hug. "Just breathe, okay? Calm down. You're safe. You're fine."

Antonio had his head pressed into my shirt. "It's my fault," he whispered.

"What is?"

"Ivan."

At that, I had to push him away. I put both hands on his shoulders, glaring at him right in the eyes. "Do not think that. Do not  _ever_ think that. Ivan did that to  _himself._ And if what Arthur tells me is true, he'd been planning it for ages. Setting out keepsakes and everything, the sick fuck."

"No! Don't say that about him!" Antonio's voice was verging on hysteria. "Please! No!"

"Goddammit, Antonio, relax!" I cried out, pulling him close to me again and rubbing circles on his back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just calm down. Deep breaths."

When he finally quietened, I heard him mumble, "I should have known. It was like he was dropping hints. Like he was asking to be saved."

"What?"

And then Antonio started to talk. Slowly, hesitantly at first. But then as the story developed – the scars on his arms, the day Antonio had helped Ivan with his depression, the comment about  _Anna Karenina_  – his voice became steadier. "I even have that last conversation on my phone. He told me, I mean…" and Antonio pulled away, reaching for his mobile and opening the chat.

I read the conversation about the Christmas presents, feeling slightly sick.

"I should have known. I should have known," Antonio kept repeating, rocking back and forth as he buried his head in his knees.

"Shut up. Nobody could have known." I pulled him into another hug. "Calm down. Just calm down. Breathe. Easy, now."

"It's my fault. Ivan's dead and it's my fault."

"Antonio, it's not. Stop thinking that."

"If I'd just  _thought_ about what he was doing, what he was saying,.."

It was like he wasn't even listening to me.

And suddenly, I felt his shoulders tense up in a horribly familiar feeling. This had a taste of déjà vu to it. Antonio was getting a self-harm urge. Jesus god, he'd triggered himself  _again_.

"Breathe," I commanded. "I want to hear you breathing. Inhale, exhale."

Antonio began to struggle. He tried pushing me away, but he didn't have the strength.

"Calm. Down."

"I have to scratch. Lovi, god, I need to scratch."

"No, you don't. You've cut and scratched enough for a fucking lifetime. Stop it. Breathe."

So he did. At least he tried. In, out, in, out.

And when I felt his shoulders slump, when I felt him curl into me, I knew it was okay again. Well, as okay as this situation could possibly be.

"Antonio," I began quietly, knowingly walking into dangerous territory again. "How did you break open that razor?"

"You'll kill me," he replied, although his words were muffled because his head was buried in my shirt.

"No, I won't."

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because…" I heard him swallow. "You'll take it away…"

Cold terror gripped me.  _Of course._ "You plan on cutting again, don't you?" I almost wanted to hit him. I was so  _angry._  And so scared. So, so,  _so_ scared.

"I never said that!" he cried, but I heard him cuss softly in Spanish. He'd messed up. He'd messed up and he knew it. He never meant to answer any of my questions.

"Antonio." My voice was far less friendly now. "What. Did. You. Use."

He pulled away from me and actually backed off, "A knife, I told you."

"No. You lied."

"I did not."

"Antonio."

A sudden sob escaped him and he curled up into a ball. "You'll hate me. You'll hate me."

I tried to hug him but he pushed me away. "Dammit, I could never hate you. Just please, for the love of god, tell me what you used."

"Your compass."

I had to lean in to hear him.

"My…compass."

He nodded. "From your geometry box. It was…the perfect size."

The geometry box I never used. Antonio had taken it. He'd actually broken a razor with it. A part of me, a sick, twisted part of me, was astounded at the creativity. Another part, however, was purely fucking  _horrified._ Somehow, in some crazy as shit way, I'd contributed. Jesus. No wonder he was so scared of telling me.

I sat back, just gaping at him.

"Don't blame yourself," he cried quickly, looking up in alarm. "It was me! It's always me! Lovi, where are you going?"

I had crawled off the bed and was now making my way out of the room. "I'm throwing it out."

"Oh, Lovi…"

"No," I snapped, whipping around and glaring at him. "It's going."

I opened my geometry box, feeling sick when I saw the innocent looking compass and divider. I plucked them out carefully, went to the dustbin, and threw them inside. And then, for good measure, I took random scraps of paper and garbage from the kitchen platform and dumped that over those horrible, dangerous things.

When I returned, Antonio had curled into himself and was crying again. "Why am I so sad?" he asked. "Why am I always so sad?"

I stood before him, and forced his face up, so that our eyes met. "Because," I said softly, kissing his hair, "You see too much." I kissed his forehead. "You think too much." I kissed his nose. "You feel too much." I finally pressed my lips against his. And when we broke away, I said, "You're an artist. And unless artists are careful, they'll always be sad."


	16. The Longest Whale Song

_The Longest Whale Song – Jacqueline Wilson_

* * *

"Even as I hold you, I am letting you go." – Alice Walker

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

" _Hello, Lovi! We were just sitting down for dinner. How are y—"_

My Italian was so hurried that I stumbled over the words, almost watching them falling off my lips and tumble to the floor, crashing like glass.  _"I need to talk to you about Antonio."_

On the other end of the line, my grandfather grew quiet. But then I heard him sigh softly and I heard the screech of the kitchen chair as he perhaps got up and walked to his room. I heard the soft sound of a door closing, proof that he was completely alone, and Feli couldn't overhear the conversation.  _"What happened?"_

I'd been preparing myself for a coherent dialogue, but as soon as it was my turn to talk, I'd forgotten what I was going to say. So instead I was just stupidly silent for a few panicked seconds, and then all at once, words gushed out of me.  _"Oh god, it's just shit, it's just shit. A friend of ours killed himself and that somehow triggered Antonio. Like, why the fuck is this happening? And Christ, grandpa, god, he cut himself like nine times and he's so fucking scared of me. I managed to get him to talk but he's so scared, it's as though he thinks I'm going to hit him or something. And I don't know what to do. I need your help!"_

" _Lovi, calm down. Breathe."_

" _I can't!"_

" _Lovino, it would be sort of pathetic if both of you are freaking out."_

Oh. Right.

I glanced towards Antonio's room. The door was open, but he was still asleep. It was almost dinner time, though. I'd have to wake him up eventually, right? I took a deep breath and turned away.

" _All right. I'm calm."_

" _Okay. Good. Now, tell me what happened. Properly."_

So I did. Some bits – like Antonio's shirt sleeve – were difficult and made me want to cry, but I held on until I was able to recount the whole thing.

" _At least he opened up to you,"_ my grandfather said after a pause. And then he was silent for a few minutes.  _"But you said he was scared. That's normal, Lovi."_

" _No, no, it's not."_

He was quiet again for a few minutes.  _"When I first stumbled into your grandmother…cutting…"_ Oh god. This wasn't something I wanted to hear. And by the sound of it, this wasn't something he wanted to talk about either. But the two of us just held our ground.  _"I'd only been dating her for a few months. I honestly didn't know what to make of it. She was terrified of me. And I think I was just as scared."_

" _Yeah. What did you do?"_

I heard him choke and then swallow.  _"Never mind. I can't talk about this."_

" _I can't listen to it."_

" _Fine. Okay. Moving on."_

" _Right."_

He was silent one more time, and then he softly said,  _"Remember how you used to comfort Feli during thunderstorms?"_

" _This is slightly different from a thunderstorm, grandpa."_

" _No, it's about the same. You'd tell him these crazy fairytales. It would always make him laugh. Try that. Distract Antonio. It'll help."_

" _Will it?"_

" _Yeah. I think so. It's better than having him scared of you. That would do a lot of damage in the long run."_ I heard him swallow.  _"Lovino, don't take this the wrong way, but I have to ask: how much do you love him?"_

" _Like you love grandma,"_ I replied before missing a beat, and I heard him gasp.

" _That is a strong statement."_

" _It's the truth. I know what you're worried about. You're worried I'm in over my head, and I'm still young and I shouldn't tie myself down to someone who has problems, but I don't give a shit. I don't make a decision without thinking things through, and I've thought this through. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle it."_

" _Okay,"_ he said finally.  _"You've always been wise beyond your years."_

Despite everything, I felt my cheeks darken. Every time  _nonno_ paid me a compliment, I felt so embarrassed and special. It was so weird.

So, to change the subject, I quickly muttered,  _"Thanks for the help, I guess. Talk to you soon."_

" _Okay, Lovi. Take care. Call me if you want to talk or…well, you know."_

" _Yes. Thank you. Bye."_

I cut the call and put it aside with shaking hands. I needed a distraction. But I didn't feel like applying the mental effort it would require to paint. Somehow the thought of watching TV repulsed me. I tried listening to music but I'd never been the sort of person who could get carried away by it, even if it was Mozart and Bach and Beethoven. I read for a while too, but I couldn't fucking concentrate.

Eventually, I looked towards the kitchen. It was half past ten at night. They must have shut the college kitchens, too. Not that it mattered. I doubted Antonio would have wanted to spend time with other people right now. I didn't feel like cooking, but it was better than nothing, anyway.

Antonio emerged from his room at eleven exactly, just as I was putting the finishing touches to an unnecessarily elaborate pasta dish. I wasn't even hungry. But when he entered the living room, we just sort of silently looked at each other. I could see deep distrust in his eyes, and it almost made me break down. He kept his distance from me as he ate without protesting, curling into himself as he sat on the couch, avoiding eye-contact, being completely silent.

And here I was thinking that the conversation from before had helped break some of his walls. If anything, he seemed even more defensive now. He was behaving as though he expected me to physically attack him.

I didn't know what came over me next. It was like someone had switched a flip or changed a setting. Like I was a DVD player or a music system. I put on this massive smile on and said, "Oh, I just remembered something. When I was a kid I had this crazy-ass dream that I'd grow up and become a don. You know, mafia. Don't even fucking ask. It used to worry the shit out of my grandparents. I'd watched  _The Godfather_ on TV one day without them knowing. It traumatised me a little – especially the sex scenes, since I had no idea what was going on – but the gun violence was so cool. And I think the first clue that I was gay was that I was a bit smitten with Michael Corelone. Al Pacino was one fine piece of ass when he was younger."

Antonio was just staring at me, his eyes wide and slightly confused. But then he looked away, moved his pasta around the bowl a bit, and softly said, "Well, yes." I almost didn't hear him. I had to lean forward and read his lips.

"And his  _jaw-line_!" I gushed, knowing how absolutely ridiculous I sounded. Like a goddamn pre-teen girl. " _The Godfather_ trilogy is still my favourite ever. Al Pacino, seriously. Although I loved Sonny. I absolutely adored him. He was a dumb bastard but a good guy in the end."

"Sonny's okay," Antonio replied quietly, still not meeting my gaze.

"Who's your favourite character?"

"Vito Corleone, I guess."

"Oh, obviously. That's a dumb question."

"Mm." He glanced at me for a second and looked away. "I liked Pirates of the Caribbean."

"Jack Sparrow is the shit," I agreed, nodding sagely.

"Johnny Depp's attractive, I suppose."

"You  _suppose_?"

Antonio smiled weakly. It only lasted for a second or two but it seemed to light up his face. I felt my heartbeat calm down. Antonio's smile made the universe make sense.

He said, "I also liked Orlando Bloom when I was younger. Although now I think he's weird."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Oh, Arthur keeps telling me to watch Sherlock. But a modern day Sherlock Holmes? That's just fucked up."

"It's okay," Antonio mumbled, lowering his eyes. "Arthur made me watch that over Christmas. He called me uncultured because I hadn't seen it. It's pretty good. Arthur calls himself a Cumberbitch."

"What the fuck is a Cumberbitch?"

"Someone who finds Benedict Cumberbatch hot. He's the guy who plays Sherlock. Anyway, the adaptations of the stories to the screen are convincingly done. And each episode is as long as a movie."

"Oh, well, I –"

"Do we have anything sweet?" Antonio interrupted. "Like chocolate or something?"

"Let me check," I muttered, putting my plate down as I opened the fridge. "We have a half-eaten Mars bar."

"Okay. That will do."

I tossed it to him and he bit into it. It looked horribly chewy. I could never stand that crap. And plus, something about a refrigerated Mars bar put me off. But at least Antonio was being talkative. That was a good thing, wasn't it?

I silently thanked my grandfather.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I felt like I had a hangover. I was slow and lumbering and heavy. I had a steadily growing headache, something I knew would turn into a migraine if I wasn't careful. The lights were too bright, the sounds were too loud.

I didn't want to go to class. Entering that classroom would make it too real. If I could somehow prolong it, I could pretend like Ivan wasn't dead; he was simply on vacation. Probably on a tropical island. He'd like that. Or maybe he was lying down in a field of sunflowers, staring up at pristine skies. In his universe, he didn't have depression or scars. He was just so happy. He was the epitome of how a life should be lived.

Lovi didn't want me to attend class either. But then Arthur called up, saying,  _"Antonio…are you going?"_  and my voice, sounding foreign and distant, answered, "Yes."

When I entered, Emma was already sitting there. Mei looked like she hadn't slept. And Emil's eyes were bloodshot. Arthur walked in a moment after I did, and all five of us stared at the empty desk that had, until a few weeks ago, been occupied with one of the finest young writers we'd ever known.

Emma stared at her nails. "Well, um…" she took a deep breath, and with enormous effort, lifted her gaze. "You must have received emails, but I want to tell you in person. The dean's giving a speech about Ivan today. In the auditorium. At four. All the students are invited. And, um, I hope I'll see you there."

"Why?" Emil mumbled, staring at his feet. "What could Dr. Eichel say about Ivan that we didn't already know? What would he say about Ivan that would bring him back? I don't want to sit for this."

"I know how you feel," Emma said softly, her voice pacifying and gentle, as though she was comforting a crying baby. "But we're honouring his memory. It would be nice if you came. That's all I'm saying."

Emil made a face, but didn't say anything.

I lowered my head to the desk.

I still hadn't opened his letter. I kept it in my cupboard, hidden with my clothes, along with that blade I'd saved from yesterday. Thank god Lovi hadn't found that. I didn't know when I'd use it next, but I wasn't done with it. That I knew.

Emma sighed, and I looked up.

She said, "I feel obligated to ask if any of you need to see a counsellor. We have one on campus. Talking about your grief with someone…might help."

The four of us looked at each other, but Mei spoke first. She echoed our thoughts. "I want to just  _grieve._ I don't want some old hag to tell me how I'm supposed to feel about losing my friend. She doesn't know me, and she never knew Ivan. Why should I want to talk to her?"

Emma looked a little startled, and then a bit hurt. Mei chewed her bottom lip and apologised softly. Emma said, "Well, I'm just reminding you. We have the facilities, and you can use them." She paused and then shook her head. "Look, why don't we just take a week off? We'll restart our classes next Monday. I think we all need some space."

"Yes, please," Arthur mumbled.

"Okay." Emma stood and packed her things. "Do try and come to the speech, though. And if you need to talk, you know…well, you can always call me. And you know where my office is, so don't hesitate to approach me."

After Emma left, the four of us just ambled off and went our separate ways. Emil muttered something about calling his brother, and Mei said she wanted to lie down. Arthur didn't say anything to anyone. He just walked off, his hands in his pockets, his eyes downcast. I went to the library.

I couldn't concentrate on anything. I didn't even bother, really. I just sat at the table with my forehead pressed to the desk, closing my eyes and trying not to think.

The one thing I'd noticed was that the cutting had quelled my need to scratch. I still felt the sudden spurt of nervousness that would have sent me in a blind panic to try and rip the skin off my bones, but now it just passed.

I could feel the gradual progression. First scratching, now cutting. I was getting worse. And perhaps what terrified and thrilled me was that I didn't care. I  _wanted_ to be sick. It found it genuinely exciting that I had to pick out a full-sleeved shirt this morning. The knowledge of having a blade stashed away made me feel empowered. I felt special. Different. In moments when I wasn't feeling unhappy or empty, I had a twisted sense of superiority. Like I wanted to tell people,  _look at me. Look at what I'm going through! Look how damaged I'm becoming!_

When Gilbert and Francis found me, I almost wished that my sleeve had ridden up a little, exposing that perfectly white bandage. They'd know. The second they saw it, they'd know I'd cut. I didn't want to tell them myself. I wanted them to find out the hard way. I  _wanted_ to traumatise them.

But at the same time, the thought of  _anybody_ knowing was frightening. They'd make me confront myself. I just didn't want to. It sent chills through me. Nobody could know. Nobody could ever know.

* * *

The talk was horrible. Lovino held my hand through it, but it was just horrible. Dr. Eichel was so obviously trying to be approachable and sad, and we could see how distressed he was, but somehow that made it worse. And he spoke about Ivan in the past tense – something I hadn't even considered I'd have to do.

After the speech, I had to use the bathroom. Arthur was there, throwing up. I rubbed his back, not knowing if it would help, and when he was finally done, I had to help him stagger to the sink to wash his face and mouth. He sucked on a breath mint and leaned with his back against the wall, his eyes closed.

"Do you feel better?" I asked softly.

"A little. That speech just…I don't know…I felt ill."

"I know," I said, looking away as I balanced my weight on the palms of my feet. "I'll be back in a moment, okay?"

When I exited the cubicle, Arthur was still standing there, exactly how I'd left him. As I was washing my hands, he mumbled, "This morning…I forgot. I don't know what came over me. I was talking to Alfred as I normally did…and I don't remember the conversation, but I said something like, 'Ivan is –' and then I stopped, because somehow it felt wrong. And then it hit me. 'Ivan  _was_ '. And then I remembered the announcement yesterday, the plant, everything. It was so horrid. I was crying for ages." Arthur glanced up. "Do I look all right?"

"Not at all," I replied simply, slumping against the wall next to him.

"Alfred's taking me out. Not that he cares how I look, but I do wonder if I look okay enough to be stepping outside."

"You don't."

He shrugged. "Hardly matters, I guess." He played with his thumbs. "How are you holding up?"

The razor. The letter. The cuts. The taut, horrible atmosphere in the apartment.

"Not very well."

"Mm. That makes sense, I suppose. You were close with him."

I looked away as I felt my eyes sting. "Can we not talk anymore?"

"Okay." He sighed and straightened up. "I need to go. Will you be okay?"

"Lovi's waiting for me outside."

"Alfred is too. I feel so bloody dependent."

"Yeah." I wiped my eyes. "Yeah."

He patted me on the shoulder awkwardly, before stepping outside. I stood there in silence for a few more minutes, washed my face, and then left as well.

When Lovi and I got back to the apartment, he switched on the TV and I went to the bathroom. I had to sort out that damn shirt. It was still there, in the bucket. Along with the bloodstains. Every time I'd entered the toilet since the day began, I'd just look at it.

I didn't even want to clean it up any more.

"Antonio?" Lovino asked, but I didn't turn around. I went to the bucket, pulled out the heavy, soaking shirt and wrung it of excess water. And then, without making eye-contact with Lovi I marched off to the dustbin and threw it away.

"Antonio, wait –"

"I have to write," I muttered before going to my room and shutting the door in his face.

Lovino opened it, entered, and before I could grab my laptop, he picked it up. "You will sit at the table where I can see you."

It felt like jail.

* * *

The next day, Lovi stirred awake beside me. He didn't go for his run, though. We just stayed awake for a bit, not saying a word. Although there was so much to talk about, both of us were just ignoring it. For now, anyway.

Finally, I said, "Grieving is really frustrating."

He turned to face me. "Frustrating? That's an odd word to use."

I chuckled weakly. "Really. I've never lost anyone before. I'm not used to it."

"You don't really get used to it," Lovino mumbled, putting his head on my shoulder. I kissed his hair. Of course, Lovi's parents had died. And his grandmother had killed herself. If anyone knew about death and grief, it was Lovi. He said, "I pestered  _nonno_ to tell me what happened to…her. And he did. He used the word 'suicide', which was a very distant concept for me at the time. I sort of became obsessed with it. I scoured the internet for information on it. I discovered something called 'self-harm' and 'depression', which were also very strange ideas for me. I asked a lot of weird questions in school. It got so bad that the teachers called my grandfather and advised him to make me see a therapist."

"Did you go?"

"Just to the school counsellor," he replied with a shrug. "She informed my grandfather that it was normal. That I was just trying to rationalise her death, so that I could accept it. It was a weird phase, but I got over it. I do end up reading a lot of books about these subjects, though…" he said, his voice trailing away. "I read up on these things when I miss her a lot. The last time I did was just before I came here. I kept thinking how proud she would have been, and then before I knew it, I was typing 'Depression forums' in Google to read about what other people were going through."

"That's pretty creepy."

"Yeah. But why did you say it was frustrating?"

I shrugged, staring at the ceiling. "I keep thinking about how I could have prevented it. Maybe I should have worn brighter coloured clothing. Somehow that would have cheered up Ivan's mood and make him rethink the suicide. Stuff like that. It makes no sense."

"No, it does. You're trying to accept it. It's normal."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

" _Te amo_ , Lovi."

" _Ti amo_ , bastard."

* * *

It was the last  _comfortable_ conversation I had with him for ages.

* * *

In the days that followed, I was stopped by random people sobbing profusely and claiming to know Ivan. It was just sick. They'd say things like, "I just  _knew_ something was wrong with him…" or "He was such a kind person, such a good friend," and I'd have to nod and agree and somehow brush them off. How could people do things like that with a clean conscience? Faking grief? They were tarnishing his memory.

I found Arthur sitting on a bench outside in the snow one afternoon. He looked so small as he hugged himself in his black coat and cap, perched on one corner of the seat. It was a terribly gloomy day. When I sat next to him, I noticed the bottle in his hands.

"Ale," he said simply, waving it around so a little bit spilled over. "Warms you up."

"You'll fall ill," I told him simply, deciding not to ask where he even got the drink from.

He ignored me, saying, "Bloody wankers accosting me in the hallways, crying about Ivan. Bloody gits. Why would Ivan know a third year music student, for pity's sake? Don't they realise how stupid they sound? Bloody idiots. Bloody fools. Bloody…" his voice trailed off into incoherent mutterings. I pried his hands off the bottle, and his voice picked up, saying, "Yes, drink that, warms you up."

I took a sip. It was bitterly cold, but it burnt my throat as it went down.

"There you are."

The both of us turned, and Mei was standing above us with Emil next to her. Both of them were wrapped up in thick coats, although Emil looked unconcerned with the weather. They sat on the bench next to us, and I offered them the ale. Mei had a sip or two, and Emil glugged down a generous amount before Arthur started protesting.

That's when I noticed the scarf folded neatly on Mei's lap. She was shivering, with Emil's arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

"Why don't you wear that?" I asked. "It's designed to survive a Russian winter."

"I can't. I could barely even take it with me. But my roommate convinced me."

"Ivan would have wanted you to wear it," Emil simply said, his quiet voice making all of us fall into a state of silent contemplation. He went on, "I signed my name on a piece of tissue with his pen this morning."

"How…how did it feel?" Arthur questioned, his voice cracking.

Emil looked away. "Weird. It's all just so weird. I can't think of him as being dead. Why would he kill himself?"

At this Mei made a small noise. Somewhat like a whimper or a groan, or perhaps an odd twist of both. "Oh yes, that reminds me. I was looking for you guys last night. I spoke to Dr. Eichel. It took a bit of convincing," – her voice turned dark at the word 'convincing' – "But he, um, he gave me the details. Do…do you want to know?"

"Yes!" Arthur and Emil replied in panicked unison. I lowered my head to my lap, burying my face in my knees. I could feel a migraine coming on.

"Antonio?" Mei asked gently. I didn't reply, so she put a hand on my shoulder, squeezed it lightly, and began. "Well…um, he died on the twenty-eighth of December, in his bedroom. He slit both his wrists up to the elbow. And –"

I whined something unintelligible and curled into myself some more. So much so that Arthur had to throw his arm around my shoulders and haul my head up to look at my face. "I know," he told me grimly. "This is bullocks. But I think all of us – you included – want to know this."

I nodded, wordless. He was right, of course. I did want to know. I wanted to know everything he was doing in his last moments. Did he cry? What was going through his head? What was he wearing? Which arm did he hurt first? What did he use? A knife, maybe, right?

My hand flew to the forearm I'd cut. A part of me wanted to rip out the bandage and do it again. But the blade was back in the apartment. God, what was I thinking? I should have kept it with me.

"Go on, Mei," Arthur said. He didn't seem drunk anymore.

"Right," she said, tapping her foot against the snow uncomfortably. "Um, well, he left a note. He said he was going to do it on Christmas Day, you know? But he couldn't ruin Christmas for his whole family for the rest of their lives. But he wanted to do it before New Year's. So he chose the twenty-eighth. Um, when the coroners examined him, they found a lot of…well, scars. Self-harm sc –"

"Stop it!" I cried, covering my ears and jumping to my feet. I scrunched my eyes shut as I shook my head vigorously. "Stop, just stop!" Ivan, with all his scars, had killed himself. What did that mean for me? What would happen to me?

Tears sprung from my eyes and froze on my face, even as I wiped them away. The twenty-eighth of December. What was I doing on that day? I think Arthur, his parents, and I had gone out. A restaurant. Some home-style cooking. Chocolate brownies. I remember I'd had chocolate brownies in chocolate sauce for dessert.

Emil had to get up and guide me back to the bench. "It's okay," he said quietly, rubbing circles on my back. "Breathe. It's okay."

"It's not," I snapped. "Ivan's dead. Ivan is completely, totally dead.  _For no reason._ And we could have stopped it!"

"How?" Mei asked, her voice small.

"Well, his writing! We've all read the stuff he used to write. And we didn't suspect a thing? Didn't you feel his stories had this dark, sad element…sort of like Sylvia Plath, except worse?"

"Oh come on, Antonio," Arthur argued. "How was anyone to know he was depressed?"

_But I knew! I knew!_

"It's his writing," I went on. "Mei. I know Mei gets loves splashing in puddles because the happiest scenes of all of her stories involve puddles and splashing in some way. Emil likes sitting quietly by the fire with a stiff whiskey, enjoying his solitude. I know that because he used it as a powerful image in one of his earlier stories. And you, Arthur. Underneath your drab, sarcastic image, you're a complete sap! I can tell because of how you write. How your characters deny emotion like it doesn't exist. Like it makes them weak. You say I don't know the people I study with, but that's  _not true._ We're writers, for pity's sake. We're open books."

My head sank to my knees again, and nobody said anything. Not for a long time.

Eventually, though, Mei unfolded Ivan's scarf and stared at it. "It's just so soft."

"Wear it," Arthur encouraged. "Wear it, Mei. Ivan would have wanted you too."

I raised my head to watch. Mei, tears in her eyes, wrapped it around her neck like Ivan used to, and the large material enveloped her. It rose up to her nose and dipped to her breasts. She looked at us. "What do you think?" she questioned, her voice shaking.

"You look like a birthday present," Emil suddenly said, his voice cracking with humour.

And then, out of nowhere, the four of us laughed. It was so strange to be laughing about something so sad. But maybe we were just so emotionally tattered. Maybe we just needed to laugh.

"Is it warm?" I asked, still smiling.

"Very," she replied, her lips going upwards. She pulled it closer to herself. "It's so warm."

"You think," Arthur suddenly blurted, taking a long swig of his ale, "If I water the violets, it'll be…I don't know, some sort of weird symbol? Of moving on?"

"It's too soon to be moving on," Mei said gently, giving him a graceful little smile. "But it's a start. You haven't been watering them?"

Arthur's eyes turned dark and he shook his head. "Too bloody frightening. Alfred's been taking care of the damn thing. I can't even imagine how attentive Ivan must have been while having conversations with people, though. He picked out such thoughtful gifts."

"I didn't know you were into flowers and stuff," Emil muttered.

"Well, I'm not, actually," Arthur said. "I just told him that the last time I visited my grandmother before she died, we planted flowers in her garden, and it was my best memory with her. I guess he remembered that, huh?"

"I guess so," I muttered. "I still haven't opened his letter."

"Are you going to?" Mei asked.

"No."

Mei took my hand in hers and patted it lightly. But nobody said anything.

"Can we please talk about something else?" I asked. " _Please_?"

"Fine." Arthur finished the ale and dropped the bottle to the ground, prompting Mei to sigh dramatically, pick it up, and throw it into the trashcan only a few feet away. Arthur said, "What are you fellows going to do about that anthology?"

"What?" I asked.

"The culture fest thing," Emil reminded.

"Oh, that."

"It feels strange to even think about that," Mei muttered.

Nobody said anything. Nobody had any ideas. Nobody really cared.

* * *

"Where were you?" Lovino asked as I entered, shivering violently, my clothes damp with melting snow and my lips an odd shade of blue. I peeled off the jackets that had become so cold and went straight for the radiator, toasting my hands until I felt I could move without falling over from the temperature.

"Outside," I replied, going to my room to get another sweater.

"Do you have a death-wish or –" but he gasped as I turned around, the two of us looking at each other. Lovino looked away and chewed his lower lip. "Shit. Sorry. I meant to say: why would you do that?"

I shrugged, making myself some coffee. "Arthur was there. And then Mei and Emil joined us. And we just chatted, I guess. It was nice."

"Oh."

I was such a screw-up. I hated the  _distance_ I was creating between myself and Lovino. But ever since that  _day_ , I was just…I couldn't let him get close to me. I was too scared of what he might think. He didn't deserve to suffer through my problems as well. But at the same time, our refusal to talk about the cutting had started to chip away at us. I knew Lovino was trying to get me to trust him with it. He'd ramble on about stuff he'd never cared about before, if just to elicit a smile from me. But I couldn't. I just couldn't let him in. Not because I didn't trust him or anything. Far from it. It was just too difficult.

What was I even afraid of?

I didn't know.

I was just so scared. So, so scared.

Later, I stared my new book, and my fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment as I thought of a sentence.

_I stared at myself in the mirror. My long, delicate fingers. Years of playing the piano. The scratches and scabs on my arms, the graceful incisions on my wrist. I was a black-hole. I just stole, I just took. I sucked in everything around me, and lost it somewhere inside my heart. Not even light could escape the crushing, suffocating horror of depression._

_As I looked at my reflection, I realised that happiness was when you knew what you were afraid of._

I stopped. That old melancholy feeling was back. I saved my story, backed it up, and switched off my computer.

When I left my bedroom, Lovino was sitting at the table, painting. He was backing me, but I watched him work with his quick, concentrated energy, paint flying all over the place.

It struck me how we were only ten steps apart, but I still felt very far away.

* * *

Eventually, though, the week ended. And slowly, like lost souls moving towards the light, I, Arthur, Mei, and Emil ambled to class. Emma looked worse for wear, and it was with a pang of guilt that I realised that I hadn't even spoken to her to see how she was doing. By the looks on everyone's faces, they were thinking the same thing. At least we'd had each other. Emma just seemed so lonely.

But she put on a brave face and said, "How are you all coping?"

"We're okay," Mei said with a shrug.

Arthur dipped a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out two tiny violets. He handed one to Mei and the other to Emma, who laughed a little.

"What about Antonio and I?" Emil muttered, though he held a smile. "Don't we get flowers?"

"You two aren't pretty enough," Arthur quipped, giving us a tiny grin.

Mei looked at her violet and asked, "Can we sit in a different class? I don't think I can concentrate with Ivan's desk being so…empty."

"Oh," Emma mumbled. "Yes, I suppose we can."

Our new class was smaller, but that didn't really matter. It wasn't as nice as the other one. It didn't have as many windows, and the view was of the college tower, not the pretty fields we'd become accustomed to. But it didn't have the same air of emptiness.

"We really need to get to your novels now," Emma said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "And ideally, we should be starting with Antonio's, because of how little time he's had to work on it and it hasn't even had one critique…But considering the circumstances, I'm not sure…"

"Yes, I agree," I mumbled.

"No," Emil declared with an air of cold finality. When all of us stared at him, he sighed and explained, "Look, Ivan is dead. He's gone. He killed himself. There's no way that's going to change. Antonio's been slogging his butt off to finish his novel in time. I know it's about self-harm, but that's  _exactly_  why we ought to be reading it. Now that I've lost a friend to this…disorder…thing…I want to know more about it. Maybe that's just me, though. But I want to put my opinion out there. Antonio might be able to give us some perspective, and what's more, it might actually be good for us, emotionally, to read his book."

His speech was met with silence, but Emma just nodded to me. I opened my tab, cleared my throat, and started to read.

It was…well, complicated, to say the least. I kept wondering what Ivan would think of it. It was  _his_ opinion I'd craved. And now…

I read about five-thousand words before I ran out of breath. And then I waited for them to talk.

Nobody said anything for a while, but then Emma got up from her chair, came up to me, and pulled me into a hug. She smelled like baby powder and floral shampoo.

It was only then that I realised I'd been crying.

* * *

"Hey, are you all right?" Lovino asked. We were back in the apartment, and I was as silent and nervous as ever. "Your eyes are all red."

I angled my head away from him. I was sick and tired of how much I  _needed_ him all the time. I was fine on my own. Just fine. "I'm okay," I lied, although my hands were deep inside the pockets of my jackets, and my fists were curled up tightly.

Lovino looked at me. For once, his eyes didn't have that calculating expression. He just looked openly sad. It was as though he was saying,  _Antonio, I love you so much, don't do this to me. To yourself. To us._ But then his eyes flickered away from mine, and he quietly asked, "Do you want to go for a walk? I've been feeling really cooped up."

"You go ahead," I replied, looking away. A walk sounded wonderful, but with Lovino? Right now? I didn't know what to think. I was too frightened of the conversation that might follow. "I think I just want to sleep for a bit."

So neither of us went for a walk. We just sat in the living room, at opposite ends of the table, pretending to work, ignoring the slowly forming divide.


	17. The Help

_The Help – Katherine Stockett_

* * *

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing  
and rightdoing there is a field.  
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass  
the world is too full to talk about." ― Rumi

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I blamed myself.

As the days passed, I fell back on old habits. Bad habits. Pervading and insistent negative thoughts that clouded me. I shouldn't have lost my temper at Antonio. I shouldn't have scared him. I shouldn't have cussed. I shouldn't have had such a loud voice. I wish I was as charming as Feli. He'd know what to do. Feli wouldn't let Antonio become such a recluse. Feli would make sure we were still talking. Talking properly, that is. Not just replying to each other in a handful of sentences, not making eye-contact, ignoring the glaring problem that was slowly sucking out the soul of the relationship we shared.

It was hard not to think like that. My mind was so conditioned to, and just as I was breaking out of my shell, coming into my own, this happened. Initially, I tried to dismiss the thoughts. Eventually I just gave up.

Antonio would go down for breakfast, lunch and dinner, while I ate in the apartment. Antonio would spend all of his time in the library, working on his story, while I stayed in my room, painting. Antonio would seek out Arthur's company more these days.

We spoke, but barely. Irrelevant things. Conversations we never paid attention to. When he kissed me, I'd feel real fear in the way his lips would hover over mine, or the sharp, cold way he'd suddenly pull away and break eye-contact.

In class, my paintings became darker, a little less energetic. I'd also become a lot quieter, barely retorting to Madeline's comments every time she whispered to me behind her easel. I only half paid attention to what Sadik was saying any more, and had to rely on my classmates for homework and notes and stuff. People were starting to notice; it wasn't like I was being secretive about it or anything.

It was Alfred, surprisingly, who caught on first. We were running as usual, when he suddenly stopped, making me shoot right past him. As I was catching my breath, leaning against the lamppost, he jogged up to me and gave me a curious look. "Hey, Lovino, dude, you doin' okay?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I muttered.

"I dunno. You just seem a bit…sad. Something happen? Does the hero need to beat up anybody for you?"

"No, thanks," I replied coolly, and before he could say anything, I dashed off, eager to continue the run and avoid the conversation.

Madeline noticed next. I suspected Alfred had told her something, though. Just before class began, she caught my arm firmly and asked, "Hey, Lovino, I need to ask you something."

"What?" I mumbled warily.

"You just seem a bit…down. I was wondering if there was something wrong."

"No, nothing's wrong," I replied coldly, my teeth grinding against each other. Madeline looked like she was going to say something, but then Sadik walked in and the conversation ended right there. After class, I slipped out before she could find me and pester me some more.

Then there was Arthur.

Arthur, like the other writers, had become very quiet since Ivan's death. His incessant need to provide sarcastic comments declined drastically, and he would just pick unhappily at his food and mumble one-word answers to everyone except Alfred. He'd been working very hard to edit his novel, and had once reminded us how at the end of the year, an actual publisher was going to look at the manuscripts and probably pick one. Other than that, though, it was impossible to get a proper conversation out of him.

But I was in the library one day looking for a book Sadik had recommended to us when I saw him down the aisle, leafing through something. When he noticed me, he gave me an uneasy smile. "Hello, Lovino."

"Hi," I muttered, still scouring the shelves.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to anyway, no matter what I say." I pulled out a book and flipped through the pages. No, not this one. I put it back.

"Are things all right between you and Antonio?"

I looked up, my eyes sharpening. "Why would you ask that?"

Arthur shrugged. "No reason. Just checking."

"Things are perfectly fine," I snapped, yanking a random book off the shelf and marching off. When I thought I was far enough away, I wiped some stray tears from my face.

That night, for Arthur's benefit, I came down to dinner, sat next to Antonio, and held his hand. Antonio looked startled for a minute, staring at the way our fingers intertwined. Our skin had become pale in the constantly overcast British sky. My eyes met his for a moment, silently  _begging_ him to move his thumb in circles over the back of my hand, as he always did. I used to tell him it felt weird, but I'd actually loved it and he  _knew_ that.

I saw a flicker of – despair? Fear? Uncertainty? – flit through his eyes, but then I felt his thumb trace over my hand in slow, soft circles. Before I could gasp in surprise, he lifted my palm gently and pressed his lips to my knuckles.

And as my eyes widened, he slowly let go of me and pretended like nothing at all had happened.

For some reason, that left me feeling even worse.

Afterwards, Antonio went to his room and fell asleep. I stayed up, pretending to paint but really, just lying on my bed. Paintbrush in one hand. Drops of green trickling from its bristles, staining the bed sheet. Sketchbook lying open like a mirror. The ceiling staring down at me in pity.

And all I could think of was  _Antonio, Antonio, Antonio, ti amo, ti amo, talk to me. Be my friend again. Antonio, Antonio, Antonio._

The next day, after a disappointing class where we talked about Van Gogh (and all I could think of was Ivan's suicide), I trudged slowly down the familiar corridor towards the dining room. Madeline and I had been walking together, but then she sensed I wanted to be alone, because she sped up and left me there.

And then I felt an arm snake around my shoulders from behind, an overwhelming smell of perfume hitting me right in the eyes. I groaned. "What do you  _want_ , Francis?" I couldn't deal with this moron and his shit right now.

"May I steal a moment of your time?" Francis asked, his irritating French accent grating at my ears. Before I could protest and wriggle away, I felt his grip tighten and he dragged me off.

I felt surprisingly compliant.

Eventually he let go of me, but I still trailed behind him, dragging my feet and cursing under my breath. We walked out into the snow, to where normal people with normal lives were enjoying the feel of an unnaturally warm January day. There was a snowman, and some people having snowball fights. There was a couple kissing under the strikingly empty branches of a tree whose leaves had fallen off. Looking at them, I just felt so alone.

We found a free bench, and Francis sat, rubbing his gloveless hands together. I hugged myself. "What do you want?" I asked finally.

Francis didn't speak for a moment, his gaze faraway. His expression was a bit lost, a bit sad. Almost melancholy. Then finally, he asked, "What happened between you and Toni?"

"Nothing," I replied automatically. But who was I trying to fool?

Francis snorted, but it was in sarcasm. He still didn't look at me. "Toni is, of course, upset because his friend died. But that would logically mean that you would take care of him every minute of every day. And don't you deny it, either. I've seen how protective you are of him. You have no idea how much I appreciate it."

I looked away. "Everything is fine."

"No, no, it isn't. You both almost never sit together for even a single meal these days. Toni doesn't mention you  _half_ as much as he used to – which was a lot, believe me – but one can tell that you're constantly on his mind. Plus, you're quite unhappy these days. The king of  _l'amour_ ," – he tried to sound amused as he said that, but he failed – "like me, can tell that something is up. Why don't you talk to me? I could perhaps give you some advice."

"Why should I talk to you?" I muttered darkly. "I don't even like you."

He paused, but his blue eyes scanned over me, searching me. "Do you mind if  _I_ talk to  _you_ , though? I just wanted to get a weight off my head."

I looked to the ground and kicked some snow. "Whatever."

He looked away again, out into the distance. "Did Antonio do anything…stupid?"

I bit my bottom lip, blinking to stop the stinging in my eyes. "No," I blurted quickly, and then added, "Define 'stupid'."

Francis shrugged. "The last time he cut himself was when we had our school exams. He always gets so stressed out. Afterwards, he told us about it himself. We were terrified. Gilbert convinced him to tell his brother. Antonio agreed rather easily; I think he was considering telling Henrique himself. All hell broke loose after that, and Antonio was rather depressed for a while. We were so worried about him."

"Understandably," I muttered quietly.

"But Antonio had become rather shifty after he cut. We could tell something was wrong because he didn't hang out with us, or look us in the eye. And then Gilbert and I noticed how he was only wearing full-sleeved shirts, even though it was Spain, and the weather was getting warmer," Francis said with a sad smile. "Then one day, he caved and told us. There was a lot of drama, as you can imagine. But Toni promised us he wouldn't cut again, and he didn't. We knew he didn't. But now…" Francis looked at me, his eyes begging me to tell him the truth. "I can tell something serious has happened. Toni is our friend, and we know he's behaving strange again. Like the last time. He's completely shutting us out."

"Not just you two," I finally said, and as the words left my mouth, I buried my head into my hands. "Not just you two."

"Ah."

"What?" I asked without looking up.

"This explains your relationship problems."

"Shut up, snail-breath."

Francis chuckled softly. "You have a talent for creative nicknames,  _mon ami_." But he looked away. "How many times?"

"What?"

"How many times did he cut?"

I bit my bottom lip. I could still hear Antonio begging me to keep this from his friends. But Francis already knew, anyway. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't deal with this alone. I just  _couldn't._ I was only a kid myself, really. I was scared. I didn't want to feel like I was fighting Antonio's monsters all alone. Or worse, I didn't want to be the only one watching helplessly from the sidelines as he surrendered to them.

"Nine times," I replied quietly.

" _Mon dieu_ ," Francis whispered. "That really is a lot. The last time it was seven."

"Does it matter?" I mumbled. I felt like crying, but no tears came.

"When? When did he do it?"

"The day they found out Ivan died."

"Ah, yes. As I suspected." He looked at me, and in his eyes I saw empathy. "Don't you feel completely helpless?"

"Yes. And it's fucking terrible."

"You should talk to him."

"I've tried. Believe me. When that bastard decides to close off, he's like a fortress."

"Yes, that's part of what makes Antonio. He's secretive,  _non_? I applaud anyone who can get an inch of truth from him." Francis laughed softly, although I could sense pain in his voice.

"We have to do something," I declared.

"Yes. But what?"

The question hung in the air like it was mocking us.

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

I was sitting in the library and typing away. It was a miracle I hadn't cut again. It was always on my mind. With Ivan, my novel, and the fine red lines on my arms, blades were all I could think about. But instead, I channelled all my energy into writing. I was very close to the end. Fifty more pages, I estimated.

A splash of colour and a head of silver hair invaded my line of sight, and I looked up with a small gasp. What in the world was  _Gilbert_ doing in the library?  _Gilbert_!? But he saw me, his red eyes holding a small smile as he pulled up a chair facing me and sat down. "Sup?"

"Hey," I replied quietly. I didn't want him here. He was invading my personal space. We were all alone. No Maddie, no Alfred, no-one. This was a prelude to disaster. It wasn't like my friends didn't know. They weren't stupid. They knew me too well. Even though I'd taken off the bandage on my arm, I was constantly touching the area, or rolling up my sleeves to look at it. They must have noticed. Besides, I wasn't exactly being social with them.

And Lovi, too. Things between us were so strange. So painfully strange.

Gilbert and Francis  _must_ have noticed.

He said, "Wanna grab a beer?"

I looked at my laptop screen. "No, but  _gracias_  for asking. I need to work on this."

"It can wait for a bit. C'mon, we haven't had a drink together in a while."

I didn't reply.

"Fine. I guess I could just sit here for a bit then, too." He leaned back against his chair and stretched, cracking his knuckles. "So," he declared, leaning forward a bit and lowering his voice. "Do you still have the blade, or have you thrown it away?"

I almost fell off my chair.

I felt the blood drain from my face as I looked into Gilbert's eyes. Not a trace of humour on his face. I knew they suspected something, but this was so…direct. He was just staring at me patiently, waiting for him to respond.

"W-what are you talking about?" I stammered.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about. But if you want me to spell it out for you, fine. I know you cut yourself. I just want to know if you plan on doing it again. And if you still have the blade."

"What is wrong with you?" I cried, dropping my voice as a few students looked up to stare at me. In a hurried, panicked whisper, I said, "I did  _not_  –"

"Antonio," Gilbert said, sounding so tired, so exasperated. "You can't lie to us."

I fell silent.

"Do you have the blade?"

Of course I did. It was hidden away in the cupboard, safely out of sight. Yes, I did plan on using it again, if the urge came. There was no way in hell I was going to tell that to Gilbert, though. He'd just said that I couldn't lie to them, but that was simply not true. I was a liar. I'd always been.

I looked him right in the eye, balling my fists. "No. I threw it."

Gilbert stared at me for a long time, trying to read my face for a trace of deception. But he wouldn't find any. I was too cautious. Finally, he sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "Okay. Good," he replied, his voice sounding breathy. "Antonio, you need help."

"Shut up, okay?" I muttered, turning to my laptop to save the document.

"No, really. You need professional help before it gets worse."

I emailed my story to myself. And then to Lovi, although I wasn't sure he was reading it these days.

"I'm fine," I retorted, gritting my teeth. "I just got a bit stressed out. You can't blame me. My friend killed himself."

" _That's_ my point. Most people, when they get stressed out, they cry or yell, or they watch TV or some shit to distract themselves.  _Self-harm_ ," he lowered his voice even further as he said it, "Does not help."

"I won't do it again," I lied firmly.

"That's what you said the last time."

"This time, I mean it."

He stared at me. "Antonio, it kills me to say this, and I know how unawesome I sound right now, but  _I don't believe you_."

I narrowed my eyes at him as I closed my laptop.

"No," Gilbert said, putting a hand on the computer. "You're not going anywhere."

"Fuck you," I declared, standing up and wrenching the laptop from him.

"Toni," Gilbert warned, getting to his feet. "Sit."

"I'm not one of your pet dogs," I snarled. Before Gilbert could say another word, I showed him the finger and marched off. He didn't follow me.

But his words rang in my head over and over and over again, until all I could hear was,  _"Antonio, you need help."_

I did not need help. I didn't want help. I was fine.

I was perfectly fine.

* * *

I entered the apartment, placed my laptop on the table, kicked off my shoes, and went to my bedroom. I was so  _furious_ with Gilbert. Who did he think he was? I'd know best if I needed a counsellor or not. It was  _my_ mind, after all.

I opened the cupboard, pulled out the drawer. Resting quietly on top of Ivan's unopened letter was the blade. I picked it up. So angry. So angry. So angry.

But as I touched it, running my hands down the sharp edge, exhaustion crashed down on me, like a dam breaking forth. Suddenly, I didn't want to do this. I put the blade away, shutting the drawer and closing the cupboard.

I didn't feel like it.

And if I didn't feel like it, cutting would be pointless. It would hurt, but not help.

I flopped down on the bed, staring at my ceiling. And absently, the thought crossed my mind.  _How long has it been since I spoke to Henrique?_ Not since after New Year's. He hadn't called or texted either. And suddenly, I missed my older brother.

When we were children – Henrique a good six years older than me – he would hold my hand as he walked me back from kiddie school. And when I accidentally broke or lost his things, he'd laugh and tell me it didn't matter. When he fractured his leg after tripping on the stairs, I was the first one allowed to write on his cast. We'd played board games until I'd fall asleep out of, well, boredom. We'd fight over stupid things like the last piece of chocolate cake. Mom would tell him off. She'd tell him to be the good older brother and give me the last piece, and he'd have to listen. But then I'd share the cake with him anyway. He pretended not to care, but I knew he did. Henrique was the first person I told about my sexuality. I was terrified about going to Hell, but he told me that God didn't care about these things. What mattered was how good a person I was.

I sat up, reached for my phone, and dialled his number.

He picked up on the first ring.

" _Toni?"_

"Hi," I said quietly, plucking at the bed sheet with my thumb and forefinger.

" _Hey, bro. It's been a while, huh?"_

"Yeah, sorry. You didn't call, though. You always call."

There was a pause at the other end, and then quietly, he said,  _"I was under the impression you wanted to be left alone. You didn't even come home for Christmas, so I thought…well…it's silly. Never mind. You should have called me if you wanted to talk, right?"_

"I just did," I replied softly.

" _Yup!"_ I heard him laugh.  _"So, how are you?"_

"Fine, I guess," I lied. "A lot's been happening here."

" _Oh? Classes keeping you busy?"_

"Sort of…" My mind went to Ivan. "A friend died."

There was a stunned pause at his end, and then suddenly he said,  _"Oh god. Antonio, I'm so sorry. What happened?"_

"He, um…was ill." Technically, this was true. Ivan was very sick.

" _Oh. I'm so sorry. That's terrible. Are you doing okay?"_

"I'll be all right," I replied, lying back in bed and looking at the ceiling again.

" _Do you want to talk about it?"_

"No…not really."

" _Okay. Then shall I change the subject?"_

"Yes please."

" _All right. How's…how's Lovino? That's his name, right?"_

I paused. "Fine."

Maybe it was my tone of voice, though. He asked,  _"Really?"_

I chewed my bottom lip but said nothing.

" _Toni, you want to talk about it?"_ He chuckled softly, and then added,  _"You know how many girlfriends I've had. I could give you some advice, if you need it."_

"Your girlfriends – ex-girlfriends – hate you now."

He laughed.  _"That's not true. There was Catalina! We spoke for a while after the break-up."_

"You really don't inspire much confidence."

" _Oh come on."_

I sighed loudly, enough to make him chuckle on the other end. I rolled my eyes and said. "We had a disagreement. Sort of. Well, no. That's not true. I sort of…messed up a bit."

" _Messed up? Messed up how?"_

"You know…I did something I wasn't supposed to do."

" _What did you do? Cheat on him or something?"_

"No!" I almost shouted into the phone. Then, softer, I whispered, "If I tell you the truth, you promise not to breathe a word to anyone?"

" _Of course."_

"Promise me. If you tell anybody, even mom and dad, I won't trust you with anything ever again."

" _Antonio, it's me. We're brothers. You can tell me anything."_

I buried my head in my free hand. "I cut."

There was a deafening, roaring, explosive silence on the other end. When Henrique spoke next, his voice was softer. Coated with fear and concern.  _"Y-you what?"_

" _Si…_ " I mumbled, slipping into Spanish.  _"I'm sorry."_

" _Antonio…"_

" _I'm sorry."_

" _Why did you do it?"_

" _I…was scared."_

" _Of what?"_

" _I don't know,"_ I answered softly.  _"I never know."_

" _Oh, Toni…"_

" _Please don't tell mom and dad, Henrique, please. Please."_

" _I don't know if I can keep this to myself. They'll want to know about this."_

" _Henrique! You promised!"_ I cried out. The last time too, Henrique had blabbed to our parents.  _"Please, please, please don't tell them!"_

" _I…well…okay…"_ I heard him swallow.  _"I…I won't. Thank you for telling me, though."_

" _Yeah, well."_ I dug my nails into my other arm.  _"Anyway, um, so Lovi and I are sort of…it's weird. Like there's an elephant in the room."_

" _Oh."_

" _I'm scared, Henrique."_

" _Of what?"_

" _I don't know."_

" _Antonio, at least try."_

" _I…I don't…of him, I guess,"_ I mumbled softly, hating myself.  _"And of myself. And of…everything."_

" _Maybe you should tell him that."_

" _Are you insane?"_

" _No, seriously. If there's one thing I know, it's lack of communication that kills relationships. Whatever's on your mind, you should tell him. From when I spoke to him, he seems like a sensible guy."_

" _He is."_

" _There you go. Just get it out in the open. Like you did with me. That's why you called me, right?"_

My jaw slackened slightly. No, I'd called Henrique because I'd missed him.

" _Antonio?"_ he pressed.  _"Did I hit a nerve or something?"_

"I don't think so," I replied in English. "I called you because it had been ages since we'd spoken."

" _And because you were upset about something."_ The tone of utter confidence in Henrique's voice startled me.  _"I know you too well, Toni."_

"Shut up," I replied weakly. He chuckled a little.

" _I don't know how to do this,"_ he said finally.

"Do what?"

" _Just…this. I'm so worried about you. So fucking worried, you have no idea. Sometimes I just want to whisk you away, like we were children playing out a fantasy, and run into an enchanted forest, live in a cave with those weird glowing bacteria thingies that look really pretty in the dark. And I'd make you happy. Somehow. I'd do anything."_ His voice broke, and it was with a jolt of shock that I realised my older brother – my tough, fearless old brother – was crying.  _"I keep thinking about all the things I did wrong. Teasing you. Bullying you – even playfully – maybe saying some off-hand comment I shouldn't have. To think that you took all of that with a smile, god, why were you always smiling? You were so cheerful, how did this…how…I mean…why…"_

"Stop. Henrique, please, stop." If  _Henrique_  cried, I was finished. "It wasn't your fault. It was me. It's always me. I'm…weak. I'm just pathetic. Please don't blame yourself. Please."

" _You're none of those things."_ His voice was as firm as tempered steel.  _"You are NONE of those things. You're my baby brother, flaws and all. Don't run yourself down."_ He took a shuddering breath when I didn't reply.  _"Please take care of yourself. Please."_

"Yes, I'll…try," I whispered.

" _Thank you."_

We didn't say anything for a while, but I was just happy listening to the sound of his breathing. Finally, he mumbled,  _"I have to finish some work now, Toni."_

"That's okay."

" _Please call me tonight."_

"I'm fine, Henrique. I'm fine now."

" _But I'm not. I just need…you to call me tonight."_

I swallowed and nodded, although obviously, he couldn't see that through the phone. "Yes. Okay, I'll call you after dinner."

" _Thank you."_

"Um, Henrique…"

" _Yes?"_

" _Gracias_."

He laughed softly.  _"Gracias, Toni."_

I smiled as I cut the phone.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I was absolutely freezing when I entered the apartment. I was cold right up to my fingertips and the inside of my toenails, but the sight I saw warmed me up instantly. Antonio had his earphones plugged into his ears, smiling quietly to himself as he cleaned up the living room. Huh, yeah. I meant to straighten the mess, but I kept forgetting.

He glanced up when he saw me and gave me a tiny half-grin. Almost like we hadn't spent the last two weeks more-or-less ignoring each other. He pulled out his earphones and softly said, "Hey, Lovi. I thought I'd get started on this mess." He waved his hands around to show how much he'd done. Crumbs and scraps of paper had been swept away. He'd scrubbed off paint stains from the table, and had washed the dishes. He was now dusting off the grime that had settled over the TV.

"It looks good," I replied simply, unsure of how I should react.

But he seemed to like the compliment, because he beamed at me before getting back to work. "Oh," he said absently. "I found one of your paintbrushes between the couch cushions. It's on your desk in your room."

"Thanks," I muttered, setting my bag down on the chair. "It's pretty cold outside."

"Oh, you went out? It's still a bit warmer than it was yesterday."

"I guess. I was talking to Francis," I began, watching him carefully. His shoulders tightened.

"Oh. That's…nice. What was he saying?"

I flipped on the electric kettle. I was dying for some coffee.

"We talked about you," I replied quietly, glancing at him.

He turned slowly. "Who started the conversation?"

"He did," I replied.

"Figures," he muttered and turned around, still cleaning. "Gilbert spoke to me, too. They must have planned it together, I bet."

"Francis was worried we're not…well, talking much. To each other." I lowered my eyes. "We aren't, though."

Antonio carefully put the cloth down. He didn't look at me, he just stared at his fingers. "Talking is so hard, Lovi."

"Talking to me is hard?" I asked, feeling my heartbeat in my ears.

"No," he explained. "Talking…about…this…that's what's hard." He took a deep breath. "I spoke to my brother, you know. He told me I should be honest with you."

I made a mental note to give Henrique a Nobel Peace Prize.

"But it's difficult," Antonio went on.

I made a mental note to hit Antonio with Henrique's Nobel Peace Prize.

He said, "But I'll try." He glanced at me. "You won't hate me if I can't do it, right?"

"For the love of  _dio_ ," I muttered. I am incapable of hating you."

He nodded, biting his bottom lip. We didn't move from where we were, standing at opposite ends of the room, not making eye-contact. Finally, after what seemed like ages, he said, "I'm scared."

"Of me?"

"Of…well, yeah. You. And everyone, I guess. But especially you."

My heartbeat picked up. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. You've been absolutely perfect. So understanding. So patient. I guess that's what scares me." He hugged himself, and I could see his walls coming up again. He took a step away from me, closer to the wall. "Sorry."

I closed the distance between us, walking quickly towards Antonio. I thought of saying something. Something like,  _don't be scared. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you._ But instead, I just pulled him close to me, hugging him. After so long. He still smelled the same. And when we kissed, he still tasted the same. His lips lingered on mine, unlike what had been happening over the last two weeks, when he'd pull away too quickly.

My hand reached under his sleeve unconsciously, and I thumbed the marks on his wrist. He gasped, his eyes widening. The kiss broke, and we just stared at each other.

"I shouldn't have done that," I said quietly. "I'm sorry." I could still feel the crisp wounds there.

He didn't say anything for a long minute. But then he lowered his eyes. When Antonio looked up again, it was with a small, tired smile. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

I stared. "It's pretty chilly outside, bastard. I'm still cold."

"True, but still. It's not  _that_ bad..."

I nodded slowly. "Let me go get another jacket."


	18. Dear Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cutting scenes, but not graphic. Not as bad as chapter fourteen, don't worry.  
> Luciano da Silva - Brazil

_Dear Life – Alice Munro_

* * *

"I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it." ― Groucho Marx,  _The Essential Groucho: Writings For By And About Groucho Marx_

* * *

**Antonio**

* * *

Nobody was looking forward to the anthology. The culture fest, we were informed, was called  _Minerva_ , after the Roman goddess of wisdom, the sponsor of arts, trade, and technology. And as February came around, everyone was suddenly thrown into the mad rush to get things organised. All of us were forced to work with the older students, helping them put things together. We had to make banners, post advertisements, get sponsors, contribute to thinking up topics for the writing competition, stuff like that. Emil became part of the student body behind all this work, some sort of shady enterprise with its fingers all over college and some watered-down of Hitler's S.S keeping an eye on everyone. It would have been comical, really, if any of us were in a humourous mood.

Lovi became five times crankier because they had to put up an art show and he had to paint some twelve different paintings in different styles. Gilbert and Alfred were losing their hair, sleep, and sanity as they struggled to make short film after short film, while Francis and Jeanne were found constantly quoting their lines or brandishing wooden swords or doing trust exercises.

"You writers have it fucking easy," Lovi told me in a deep grumble one day. "Stop bitching so much about writing your anthology entry and just do it."

I laughed when he said it, but in hindsight, it wasn't that funny. Our class was subdued. Our critiques became less energetic, while our writing became heavy and sad. Nobody said anything unless they had to. Ivan's absence was still painfully obvious, still very, very new.

It was Emma who brought it up. It was all her idea. It was April, and between editing our novels (I'd finished mine two months ago, in record time), our assignments, class work, and  _Minerva_ -related activities, nobody had the time or the inclination to work on the anthology piece. Added to that, we had to attend guest speeches and seminars, and read heavy books that we hadn't heard of. We had to write essays analysing different forms of writing, and even the college counsellor came to speak with all of us regarding our 'grief for the death of a dear friend'. It was madness.

Emma said, "I know the four of you have been struggling with your anthology pieces. But I was thinking…well, each class gets a segment, right? I was wondering if we could make it into a dedication to Ivan."

Her suggestion was met with a small silence, and then Arthur asked, "How?" We didn't mention Ivan in class much. It was too painful.

"Well, let's all write something about Ivan. As your teacher, I have to write the introduction to the segment anyway, so we could use that as a forum to talk about who Ivan was to us. And then you guys can showcase your work. I think it would be very tasteful."

"Only if we're not whining about missing him," Emil said quietly. "Grief is beautiful to write about, but it can be a chore to read."

"I agree with Emil," Mei said. "We should make it…positive, somehow."

"And I think we should add one small piece that Ivan wrote," I said finally. "He always wrote a lot of small pieces. Professor, I'm sure you have them with you?"

She nodded. "They're on my computer, yes. But all of them are so sad. Do we want to portray our Ivan as being so unhappy?"

"I mean, he did kill himself," Arthur mumbled, looking away, his eyes clouding up.

"But nothing gives  _us_ the right to portray him as sad," I declared, my voice uncharacteristically firm.

"That's true," said Emma.

We spent the next two weeks pouring over Ivan's stories, looking for something that wasn't haunting, cruel pain. He never mentioned cutting or self-harm even once in his work, but the depression bit was obvious. It was so strange to read all of his stories now. We hadn't touched his stuff since his death. And now we were looking at it all with new insight. Devastating new insight. I imagined Ivan's voice every time I read what he'd written. It made me want to cry. Or hurt myself.

I'd taken to snapping rubber bands lately. I'd done it out of desperation. The cutting urges were making me go crazy. So I'd looked it up. Forums and stuff. And apparently, snapping bands helped. But I  _hated_ it. The sting was disgusting. It hurt, but not in a good way. And I'd get these ugly raised welts across my wrist. But eventually, I even got addicted to it. I didn't even  _like_ it, but I had to have the rubber band with me. The first time Lovi caught me doing it, I was having a bad day. I was feeling horribly nervous, and the band kept going  _snap-snap-snap-snap_ until he finally looked up from his painting, frowned at me, and asked, "What the hell are you doing?"

But then his eyes lit up in understanding. Of course. He'd read up about depression and self-harm and all of that after his grandmother had died, right? He knew the instant he saw the rubber band around my wrist. "Oh."

"It helps," I said quickly, too quickly.

"Okay…" He narrowed his eyes at me but said nothing more.

I spoke to Henrique a lot more. And to my parents. It made them happy, and absently, I noticed, it made me happy too.

* * *

"Found it!" I cried out with energy I didn't know I had. I was staring at my laptop, a document lying open before me.  _An Ode to Sunflowers And Other Rare Things_ by Ivan Braginsky. It was short. A little over a thousand words. But the usage of language was so effortless. It calmed you down, like the glow of a furnace on a wintery night, or a hug from someone who loved you. It was perhaps the only positive thing Ivan had ever written. And it was absolutely beautiful.

Arthur read it first, and didn't say anything except, "I'm astounded."

Emil, Mei, and Emma had similar reactions. "This is it, then," Emma declared with an air of finality. "We'll go with this one. Anyone have any objections?"

No, we didn't. This was how we wanted to remember Ivan. With sunflowers and summer days.

* * *

In my piece about Ivan, I wrote about how he helped me feel less alone. His mere presence (although triggering – I didn't mention that), made me feel safer. As though someone understood me. Halfway through writing it, I started to cry and Lovi had to convince me to get some air with him.

I kept apologising to Lovi for feeling so dependent. For being such a burden. But he just shook his head and told me to stop being a moron. I wasn't a burden. Far from it. I was the love of his life, so calm the fuck down, Antonio, goddammit. His words, of course.

That didn't stop the self-harm urges, though. The snapping and scratching increased. I was scratching and clutching as much as I had been before, and I was snapping so much I ran through an entire box of rubber bands in only a month and a half. That was when Lovi staged an intervention.

"I'm happy you're not cutting, Antonio, but snapping rubber bands and scratching is still self-harm."

"I know," I mumbled, looking away. "Can we not talk about this?"

"No, we're going to. I understand that the snapping helps, but you should start weaning yourself off that now."

"I don't know how."

He chewed his bottom lip. "How quickly do you use up the rubber bands?"

"I need a new one every two days."

"Fuck. Okay. Let's try this. Make one rubber band last for five days. How about it?"

It. Was. Impossible.

I hated snapping rubber bands, I hated it so much. But I couldn't stop. I needed one around my wrist at all times, especially if I wasn't in the apartment. Outside, the big bad world was full of stressors. Editing the novel stressed me out too. There were a couple of extremely graphic cutting scenes which triggered me so badly I almost used the blade again. I didn't even know how I managed to stop myself. After that, I only edited when there were other people around me. I couldn't have a breakdown in front of them. And if I did, it was usually with Lovi, or Gilbert, or Francis. I was safe with them.

Rubber bands stretched out too quickly. And once that happened, they were essentially useless. I needed to feel that sting, uncomfortable and disgusting though it was. A new rubber band's sting was perfect. Well, it was as perfect as it could be, anyway. Nothing would compare with cutting, of course.

But I tried. I succeeded for the first three days, and then I had to replace it. Again, that only lasted for three days. It seemed to be my limit.

On some level, I didn't want to stop hurting. I wanted to be in pain. It was indescribable. But I didn't know how to be anything else but sad. It had taken over my mind. It was always there, a looming monster. And I wanted it there. I couldn't imagine my life without it anymore. And I didn't even want to. I was happy being sad.

What was that? Stockholm Syndrome?

Sort of?

I didn't tell Lovi any of this. I didn't want to bother him any further. He kept prying, though. Especially when I became too quiet. He always seemed to know. And when I'd protest and say I didn't want to talk, he'd always retort with, "That's exactly when you  _should._ "

* * *

 _Minerva_ took place a week before our final assignment submission. June. In summer. The timing was perfect in terms of the weather, but  _most_ inopportune with regards to everything else. The stress. The stress. The stress.

There was too much to do. First, I had to wrap up all the editing for my novel. A difficult task, since editing never  _stopped._ There was always stuff you could improve on. Always a flaw you could find. Especially me. I was an expert in finding the smallest imperfections and agonising over them until I was clutching and scratching and begging to make the pain stop, make it stop, make it stop, please.

And we had to work out all the last minute mayhem that came with  _Minerva_. Turns out, our banner had been misplaced so all five of us were scrambling and panicky in search of it, until Mei opened a cupboard and it practically fell on top of her. The publisher Emma had spoken to about the anthology still hadn't sent in the five-hundred copies we'd asked for. This was after they'd delayed it because their cover artist was on holiday in the Bahamas.

I was snapping so much that my wrists were permanently red and full of welts. I needed a new rubber band every day. I was clutching and scratching to the point where I'd made scabs on my skin. And still, the cutting urges didn't go away. They were still there, reminding me about the blade I had with me. All I had to do was slink into the apartment and  _slice slice slice_ until I could breathe again. It was so difficult to focus on  _anything._

And though Lovi and Francis and Gilbert knew I was hurting, there was very little they could do. They were absolutely swamped with work. I didn't really want to bother them, either. They had enough to worry about with me and my problems. Although at every chance Lovi got, we'd go for walks or go out to eat, or just cuddle. I liked cuddling the best. He kept me safe.

* * *

On the day  _Minerva_ was to take place, nobody – absolutely nobody – had slept a wink. The fest started at nine in the morning, and there was complete chaos. Things had to be  _just so._ Mei, Arthur and I would be manning our stall while Emil and some of the seniors handled the writing competition. Some people were volunteers. Others were judges. Some of the seniors had even invited a big writer from South America to do a reading and talk to the students.

Lovi, his artist friends, and the upperclassmen had set up this large open-air art show. Lovi was moderating a speed-painting competition, and Madeline and some of her classmates were manning their art stall. They even had portrait and tattoo stalls. It was very cool.

Gilbert and the other film-making students were airing their short films. Alfred was in charge of conducting a film-making workshop for children. Francis and Jeanne were doing plays. Lots of plays. There were music concerts in the auditorium, too. And the music students had their own stalls where they sold CDs of their work.

On the morning of  _Minerva_ , Lovi and I snacked on a few biscuit packets and Styrofoam cups of bad coffee that had been kept there for all the volunteers. Nobody spoke much as they ate. We were all too tired, and the day had barely begun.

Around nine, people started arriving. It was exciting at first, but then it gradually started becoming a bore. We had it easy. People were flocking to the arts and music counter. We, the writers, just sat at our stall and played cards (I won three games) until someone stumbled up to us to ask us what we were selling.

It was pretty easy in the beginning. Arthur and I were able to charm a lot of people into buying copies of the anthology, while Mei handled the money. We'd decided early on that we sucked at finances and Mei could take care of the transactions.

I didn't know when it started to chip away at me. All of it. The lights. The sounds. The people. So many people.

Perhaps it started when that famous writer arrived. The second he was introduced onto the specially-constructed stage, the crowd went a bit berserk. We had to peer over the counter to see them cheer for him as he read out from his latest novel. And then he mentioned the college's writing department and its esteemed faculty. He mentioned the hard work of the talented students. And without warning, the floodgates had been opened.

Within minutes, the crowd had descended upon our stall, screaming for their copy of the book. Somehow, word had gotten around about the tragic suicide of a young student and how his story was in the book, and the people manning the stall were his classmates. It seemed to be a huge selling point.

We were disgusted.

But it had worked. In one hour, we were completely sold out, and Arthur had to go back to the college to haul another box of books. I'd offered to help, but Mei had begged me to stay. After that creep who tried to grab her breast, I didn't argue. Instead, I took to handling the customers as Mei went to get some water and food for us. It was almost lunchtime and we were starving.

"Hey, kid, is it true about that dude offing himself?"

"Has he  _seriously_ been published? Fuck!"

"I bet it's like, total dark emo stuff, huh?"

I gritted my teeth. "Yes, Ivan Braginsky killed himself. Yes, one of his stories has been published. No, it's not dark."

"Where the fuck are the books, though?"

"I want my copy! Now! I've been standing here for twenty minutes!"

"Forget it, let's just leave."

"If you wait a few more minutes, we'll be back with more copies," I said, making my voice as sweet and appeasing as I could. There was a conflict brewing here. I hated conflict.

"You morons should have been better prepared!"

"Sir, there's no need to get abusive." I could hear my heartbeat in my head.  _Snap snap_ went the rubber band on my wrist.

"Here!" Arthur shouted. "Incoming! Excuse me! Terribly sorry!" He pushed past everyone and deposited a box of books on the countertop. "Sell these," he told me quickly, "I'm bringing more." I nodded wordlessly. The demand had completely overwhelmed us.

It got worse.

As soon as the books came, there was a rush. The crowd roared, pressing against the stall and grabbing for the box before I could even tear off the tape. Deep breaths, Antonio. Count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – no, I couldn't do this. I couldn't. I couldn't.

I yelled out in frenzy as people tore at the box. I yanked it off the counter and dropped it to the grass at my feet. I was on the verge of hyperventilation. My hands fumbled desperately as I looked for the thermocol cutter we'd been using to open the tape on these boxes. I reached for it, pulled it out, and tore the box open. As they saw the books, people became even more desperate.

The thing was, it wasn't just Ivan. Ivan's death had been a news story, but it hadn't gathered much attention. This book had been signed by Emma and some of the other teachers. Big writers. Award-winning novelists. And we only had a limited number of copies. That didn't help the problem. Not at all.

"Crap," Mei cried out, and it was only then that I looked up and noticed her carrying some sandwiches wrapped in foil. "Antonio, what –"

"Ugh, help me undo this thing!" I shouted, my hands shaking as I pulled out the first set of books. "Just sell them, just freaking sell them."

Arthur chose that exact moment to show up, another box in his hands. He almost got lynched this time. When he jumped over the counter to help us, I heard him say, "That's the last of it. We're out of copies."

I couldn't breathe. I was on the verge of having a panic attack. Arthur must have noticed because he asked me to step out and 'get another box'.

"But you just said –"

He gave me a meaningful look and I bolted.

I actually ran. Like I was being chased. Bright sunlight hit me in the face as I tore for the nearest open space. There was an unoccupied patch of grass at the corner of the campus and I made for it. It was a small, shaded corner. I slumped against the wall and panted. Breathe. In, out, in, out. Count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

 _Snap snap snap snap snap_ went my rubber band. But my hands were trembling so badly that I couldn't pull the elastic back as much as I would have liked, and it didn't hurt. It did literally nothing to quell the cutting urge. I clutched instead. There was always that to fall back on. I clutched very, very deeply. I actually split skin at a couple of areas.

But I was breathing normally again.

I was fine. I was fine. Totally fine.

My hands shaking, I took out my phone. Maybe texting Lovi would help, although I knew he was busy. My fingers hovered over the keys before guilt overtook me. I was being  _so_ selfish. My friends were at the stall, fighting an army of crazy shoppers. Lovino was working too. And here I was, slacking off.

I pocketed my phone and walked back to the stall.

But there was not a single customer there.

Arthur and Mei were sitting in their chairs, both of them with their heads on the counter.

"What happened?" I asked, though my voice sounded hoarse.

"They left. When we ran out of copies, they abused us a bit and then they left," Mei explained. "Arthur was a  _saint_ , though. I don't know how he managed it."

Arthur took that moment to raise his head. "Well, I don't know. I  _did_ threaten that guy."

"Because he tried to reach out over the counter, yeah," Mei said with a nod. She looked at me curiously. "Where did you go?"

"He went to get help," Arthur replied quickly. "I guess it's not required now."

I stared at him, and him at me. "Yes," I said quietly. "What Arthur said."

"Whatever," Mei mumbled, reaching for a sandwich. "Let's just eat."

I wasn't too hungry, though. I just picked at mine distractedly, nibbling at the corners. Then I threw it away.

* * *

Emma walked up to us ten minutes later, a bit confused. She had a sunhat and a green dress on, and when she saw us, she lowered her shades and gave us a quizzical look. "Why aren't you guys working?"

We were playing another game of cards. Arthur glanced up, bored, and with a confident smirk, replied, "We're sold out."

"What? We can't be."

"Sold. Out," Mei declared, making some weird hand gestures with each word.

"Did you check the classrooms? There were more books there," Emma told us.

"Yes, yes, they're all gone."

She blinked. "How is that even possible? They're not even  _Harry Potter_  books or anything."

"The Ivan thing," Arthur replied darkly, frowning as he turned back to the card game. "Plus, the star-cast of signatures on the cover of each copy. And that South American writer – by the way, who was he? – talked about the book with a lot of fanfare."

"Luciano da Silva," Emma explained. "Won the Pulitzer last year."

"Jesus," Arthur muttered. "I think I've heard of him, yes."

"Don't know how the seniors even got him here," Emma said with a shake of her head, pride obvious in her voice. "But anyway, if you three have nothing better to do, go help Emil out with that writing competition. It's about to start."

Mei groaned.

"No, no, no," Emma said with a chuckle. "Get to work, guys. Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Antonio's lying, he didn't touch his sandwiches."

"I ate!" I protested. "I'm just not that hungry."

Emma turned the full force of her frown on me. "Antonio, please take care of yourself. It's going to be a long day. I don't want anyone fainting."

I blinked at her. "That's not going to happen, don't worry. If I get hungry, I'll eat."

She narrowed her eyes at me, almost in warning. And then she shook her head, muttered something under her breath in a language I couldn't recognise, and said, "Anyway, guys, up you get. Go help Emil."

The writing contest was also outdoors, under a canvas shade. There were blankets on the floor where kids as young as ten and as old as fifteen sat cross-legged, sipping glasses of Coke or eating crisps. Emil's platinum blonde hair seemed to be turning several shades whiter as he begged for the children to 'shut up' and 'sit straight' and 'please don't attack each other with pens, it's dangerous'.

As we approached, he darkly muttered, "I hate kids."

"Where are the seniors? You're not supposed to be handling this on your own," Arthur asked.

"Hell if I know. They disappeared."

Mei got straight to work. She was terrifying.

"Okay, you loud brats! Sit straight and be quiet, or I swear I'll tell your parents what you've been up to!"

Nothing about what she'd said was that scary, but something about her tone of voice or the fiery look in her eyes made everyone quietly organise themselves. Arthur and Emil glanced at each other.

"Right," Emil mumbled. He reached out for several sheets of paper on the table, and divided them between Arthur and Mei.

"Hey," I said, "Let me hel –"

"What about the pens?" Arthur interrupted, glancing around the table. "Or did the kids bring their own stationery?"

There was a box of new pens on the chair. I stepped forward when I saw it. "Those are probably -"

"Found them!" Mei cried, picking up the box. "Emil, could you distribute the pens, please?"

"Or I could –" I began.

"Sure," Emil said, taking the box from her. "Thanks, I thought I'd lost this."

I watched them as they worked, standing their awkwardly at the front of the area. The kids were looking at me. My nails were digging into my arms as I hugged myself. I'd made a fool of myself. Stupid me. I should have kept my mouth shut. They completely overlooked me. It was so mortifying. What had I done wrong? Maybe I should have spoken up more. Maybe if I wasn't such an idiot, they'd let me help them.

I was so scared of being ignored. I'd spent too much time in school being completely overlooked. I couldn't handle it. It made me feel so vulnerable.

While the others weren't looking, I slinked off. I could hear my heartbeat in my head. I was exhausted. I didn't know where I was going until I found myself outside my apartment door, my feet having carried me their off their own accord.

I unlocked it, feeling slow and sort of disconnected.

I felt so stupid.

I was so, so stupid.

I went to my bedroom. Found the blade. Rolled up a shirtsleeve.

Cut.

Thrice.

And when it was over, I just sat there, on the edge of my bed, staring at the blood trickle. I hadn't gone too deep. I couldn't, for some reason. Even the last time I'd cut, I thought I'd really done enough to scar myself, but apparently not. Those injuries had healed a long time ago, and there was nothing left of them except for a few small white lines, barely visible.

I was far more focused as I sorted myself out. I washed the blood off my arm in the sink, careful not to get a single drop on my shirt or the floor. I felt completely empty. I didn't have to cut. I just wanted to. It felt nice. I liked it.

I put some band-aids on. I didn't need too many, I hadn't cut that much. Lovi didn't know I'd bought a new box. If he did, he'd have known exactly why I wanted them around. I wasn't done with cutting. And I liked the thought of that.

Afterwards, I just fell onto my bed. I'd put the blade away. Now, I just wanted to rest. Too much had happened today. The horrible, horrible book sale, and being ignored…

I cringed. The thought of being overlooked always made me cringe. I curled into myself to dispel the cutting urge that flourished suddenly. I snapped the rubber-band to make it go away. It worked. But not for long. Once more, I felt my body tense up. Little shots of energy, like vodka, ripped through my bloodstream, filling me up with fear and nervousness, feeding my self-hate.

Half an hour. I spent half an hour trying to fall asleep, and when the snapping, the scratching, the clutching didn't work, I went back to the blade and used it three more times. Still shallow, but it was fine. For now.

I was in a bizarre mood. Like when you're not entirely hungry, but you wouldn't mind nibbling at something? I was like that about the cutting. I just wanted to do it, for no particular reason at all. I'd been feeling like this for months, really. But the triggers today had done it. I didn't care about trying to keep my resolve up any more. Just a little bit, just some more cutting, and I'd be fine. I'd be able to face the next few weeks without a problem.

I was somewhere between exhaustion and nervousness, too. I was stressed out, but also strangely calm. It made no sense, and the confusion only added to everything. I was an emotional cocktail in the worst of ways.

I tried to sleep again, but once more, I failed. The third time I used the blade, I tried it on my hip. I couldn't keep cutting the arm. It was summer, and I couldn't wear sweaters. People would notice the marks. But cutting there wasn't half as good as cutting the arm, so I gave up and just went for the usual. I'd deal with the negative attention later.

I felt so  _mild._ Like I was doing something perfectly ordinary, perhaps running the washing machine or making coffee. The last time I'd cut, I'd been full of terror and blind panic and shock over Ivan's death. Now I just felt normal. Perfectly normal.

Bizarre.

So bizarre.

As I was putting the blade back in the cupboard, Ivan's letter caught my eye. For the first time in months. And in that strange mood I was in, I dropped the blade back into the drawer and pulled out the letter instead.

I sat on my bed, my newly-tended to arms stinging to hell, and I stared at the envelope for a bit. It had become a little yellow, but otherwise, it was exactly how I remembered it. Small, unmarked, its opening taped together.

I pulled off the sticky tape, crushed it into a ball, and dropped it onto the floor. And then, feeling my heart jump to my throat, I pulled the letter out. I held it in my hands for a few seconds, not daring to unfold it and read.

But eventually, I did. I unfolded it and straightened each crease as best as I could. And then, slowly, I ran my eyes over Ivan's neat handwriting.

_Dear Toni,_

_If you're reading this, you know what's happened to me. It means my attempt at suicide was successful. It's odd, perhaps, but being a writer, after all, I wonder what tense I should use? I'm writing in the present about a future event which, when you read it, will be in the past. So confusing. But anyway._

_How do I begin?_

_I thought I had this all planned, but I guess not, huh?_

_I'll start with the beginning, I guess._

_For three years now, I've wanted to die. At sixteen, I was clinically depressed and I knew it. I never got myself diagnosed, but I just knew. Nothing else could explain how terrible I felt all the time. I'd cry myself to sleep every night. Self-harm became a natural part of my life. And I'd decided I was sick of it. I would end my life at nineteen, before the New Year began._

_Suicide, they say, is the coward's way out. Antonio, I am a coward. I've never, ever denied it. But why would you want to fight for life when all you feel is emptiness? Sadness? Exhaustion? And the only way out is physical, self-inflicted pain? Initially I'd tried to convince myself that there was something worth living for. And in truth, there was plenty to live for. But my arguments became weaker and weaker each time, until I'd made up my mind. I didn't want to live. I was seventeen. At seventeen, I was SURE I wanted to die. It was a conscious decision. I could have chosen to live. I just didn't._

_So why nineteen? Why before the New Year? Simple. I wanted to die before I was twenty. And before January 1_ _st_ _. Being twenty is a beginning. So is a new year. I didn't want to die at a beginning, see._

_But enough about me, Toni._

_I want to talk to you about you._

_Because we never spoke about this while I was alive._

_You're like me, aren't you? Well, certainly not as bad. Or at least, I hope not. But you don't like yourself very much, do you, Toni?_

_My first clue was that day. The day you accidentally saw my scars. I saw your expression. I'd anticipated the horror on your face, but what I also saw was something else. Something close to jealousy. (You want my scars, don't you?) And as the days passed, I expected something. I'd expected you to approach me to talk about it. Or to approach a teacher, or the college counsellor, or someone who you thought could help me. But you did not. That was my second hint. I don't think the thought even crossed your mind._

_But I won't let this note take an acrimonious tone. I'm actually glad you told no-one. I'd have wanted it to be our little secret._

_Understand this, Toni. You are NOT to blame for my death. It has nothing to do with you. I knew I kept carelessly dropping hints, because on some level, I guess I wanted to tell you. How many times I came close to saying, "Antonio, I'm going to kill myself." But even if you had known, it wouldn't have mattered. My mind was made up. I just wanted to have an audience. Selfish, isn't it? I apologise. I had no business doing that to you._

_But I saw a kindred spirit. I wish we'd met sooner. Before I'd made up my mind. I'd have lived for you. We'd have helped each other. But it's too late for that now. Hopefully, this letter will help you. Somehow._

_My next clue was the Gatorade. You're a terrible liar, Toni. I don't know if you've ever been told that, but it's a fact. You told me you drank the Gatorade for low immunity, but I've never seen you sick. Not once. But I've seen you depressed a few times. You'd get low moments during class itself. And then the marks on your arm. Scratching, I assume? That's how I started out, too. It's never quite satisfying, is it?_

_Antonio, please read this carefully. Please listen to every word I'm about to tell you, because I really, desperately want you to understand this._

_Don't become like me. I know you want to. I could see it in your eyes. And I get that. I understand the desire to be depressed. It's difficult to explain. On one hand you feel empowered, but you're actually desperately needy. It's the neediness that makes you feel empowered, I think. What a contradiction. Beautiful, isn't it? Plus, being writers, we're naturally dramatic people. Depression is very 'pretty' to us. I don't mean to demean the condition. It's pretty to me too. I'm happy when I'm depressed. Does that even make sense?_

_But it's not worth it. Whatever excuse you tell yourself, it's not worth it._

_Don't cut. Don't do it. Just don't._

_Once you start, it's difficult to stop. It's such a powerful addiction. And it's such a scary one, too, since so few people understand what it's like. Once you start self-harming, Antonio, your world becomes a world of "Can't"s. You CAN'T show your skin, you CAN'T go anywhere without a rubber band on your wrist or a blade in your bag. You CAN'T handle situations that normal people can. Can't, can't, can't! Your life, and all its possibilities, collapse before you._

_Please don't get addicted to this, Antonio. I can see it in you. You have exactly the sort of personality that will start self-harming and never stop. Don't do that to yourself. You have so much to offer._

_I know it's really hypocritical coming from me. But learn from my mistakes._

_There's one thing you must do for me._

_Well, not for me, really, but for yourself._

_Fight. I chose to give up, but I want you to fight. I want you to get over this. I want you to live. I want you to be able to wake up every morning, smile at the new sun, and believe that the day will be beautiful. I want you to be able to handle situations that scare you without having to hurt yourself to breathe. I want you to see how wonderful a writer you are, because goodness, Toni, you are. I want you to change the world with your stories, because I know you can. I want you to be happy in love, to have many children, a pet dog (or cat), a large house with a view of the sea or the mountains. I want you to do everything you ever dreamed of doing. Because you can. You still can._

_Please write that story about self-harm. As triggering and terrifying that is, you're the only one I'd trust with something so personal. Write exactly what comes to you. Nothing more, nothing less. Be honest. Be honest about everything. But be kind to yourself, too. If it makes you want to cut, stop, distract yourself, and get back to it when you feel better. And when it's written, when you get it published, remember me. I'll be so proud of you._

_You have so much talent, Antonio. Don't waste it on hurting yourself. With your words, with your nails, with strips of steel. Don't confine yourself to a world of Can'ts._

_Thank you for your friendship, Toni. Thank you for your presence during my low moment. Thank you for your conversation, your critique, your encouragement. Thank you for everything. And I'm sorry to have wasted it by tearing my arms open, but I promise you, I cherish every moment we spent together. I wish for nothing but the best for you. Please give my love to Arthur, Mei, Emil, and Emma._

_Warm regards,_   
_Your friend,_   
_Ivan._

I stared at the letter in my hands for a very long time. I didn't bother wiping my eyes. I didn't really see the point in that.

Finally, I folded it back and slipped it into the envelope. I opened the drawer and put it away safely. But not before I picked up the blade, went to the dustbin, and with a small, tired sigh, threw it away.

* * *

**Lovino**

* * *

I was so covered in paint. My hands were stained with red and pink and yellow. I had a fleck of green on my hair curl, purple on my right cheek, and I was pretty sure I'd  _inhaled_ some blue poster colour. My back and shoulders hurt. But at least the worst of the day was over. People were starting to leave.

After I was done moderating that damn speed-painting contest, Maddie and I had been alternating between doing tattoos and portraits, and selling paintings. She looked just as bad as me, her ponytail askew as she straightened her glasses with fingers dipped in orange. I didn't bother telling her she now had colour on the frames. She'd figure it out eventually.

"I'm so tired," she mumbled, sinking her head to the table. "I just want to have a bath and go to sleep."

"Yeah, same," I replied without looking up. I could smell my own sweat mingled with paint and the scent of grass. It was so gross.

I only lifted my head when I heard footsteps approach. It was Arthur. I quickly said, "If you want a tattoo or a portrait, Kirkland, go away. We're fucking done. We're taking a break."

"No, that's not why I'm here," he replied, putting his hands up in defence. "I wouldn't want you idiots to paint my portrait anyway."

"Don't trust us or something?" Madeline asked, giving him a weak glare, just for the sake of it. "Who do you want, then, Sir Kirkland? Jan van Eyck?"

Arthur just stared at her for a moment, and finally said, "You're snappy when you're tired."

"Yes," she retorted, her tone icy. And then she put her head to the counter again and completely ignored him.

I asked, "What do you want?"

"Where is your useless boyfriend?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's been missing for at least a couple of hours now."

I gaped at him.

"At first I thought he just went to the loo or something. And then I thought he'd gone to eat, because he hadn't eaten. And now, I don't know. I mean, we're completely free now. Luckily, this nightmare of a day is over for us. But Mei wanted a group photo."

"Have you…have you tried calling him?" I asked, scrambling for my phone. Please Antonio, no. Not another episode. Please. I couldn't keep up with these attacks. There were too many, all of them so frightening.

**Lovino: Call me**

**Lovino: Now**

**Lovino: Where are you?**

**Lovino: Are you okay?**

"Oh, trust me, we tried. I think his phone is switched off."

I dropped my phone to the counter in frustration. "I'm going to check on him."

Arthur looked at me curiously. "It's okay, you don't have to bother. We'll just take another photo later."

"No, I…" My eyes scoured the grassy field as I tried to spot Antonio between thinning groups of people, perhaps waiting in line at a stall or chatting with some of his friends. "I think something's wrong." Of course something was wrong. It shouldn't have come as such a goddamn surprise. Antonio had been  _so stressed out_ because of this stupid culture festival.

Madeline looked up when I said that. "What could be wrong?" she asked me, and both she and Arthur regarded me with a studying gaze. I almost caved.

Swallowing, I mumbled, "He's been under the weather. Flu, you know." I jumped over the counter, grabbing my phone. "Call me if you find him."

I didn't have to look very far. I spotted Antonio walking out of the college, his skin a sickly shade of grey, his eyes bloodshot, looking like death as he ambled up to me. He chewed his bottom lip when I approached, but before I could shout at him for giving me a heart attack, he quietly said, "Can we talk? In private?"

* * *

"I need help."

We were standing at a secluded corner of the grounds, where it was a lot quieter and a lot more personal. Antonio was wringing his hands together, looking at his feet.

"What?" I blurted, because it was the absolute last thing I'd expected him to say.

He looked up now, taking a deep breath. "I cut myself. A lot." He shifted nervously from one foot to another as he saw my expression of confusion change to absolute fury. "Lovi, don't be mad. Please?"

I crossed and uncrossed my arms. Count. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe. In, out, in, out. Swallow the anger. Calm down. Relax. Relax, Lovino. "I'm not mad," I spoke quietly, my voice as volatile as ten kilos of dynamite. "How many times did you cut?"

"Um." He pulled at his sleeves. "A lot, I guess. I was stressed out. And feeling really…well, really weird."

"Define weird."

"It's hard to explain. Like I just…wanted to, I guess."

"You wanted to," I repeated. "You just  _wanted_ to cut. Like I  _want_ to punch you in the teeth right now."

"Um, right." He hugged himself, and I was painfully aware of his nails piercing through his shirt and into his skin.

"I thought you'd thrown that fucking blade away."

"I lied."

"Jesus."

He sighed, letting his hands fall. "I need help. Professional help."

I think my gaze softened. "What made you realise that?"

He chewed his bottom lip but didn't meet my eyes. "I read Ivan's letter."

"Oh. And?"

"And…well, that helped, I guess. I threw the blade away."

"That's a start," I said, taking his hands in mine and rubbing circles on his palms, just how I liked. I heard him sigh softly. "You want to talk to the college counsellor?"

He shrugged. "Whatever. That's as good a place as any to start with, I guess." He discreetly wiped his eyes.

I pulled him close to me, and held on. We stayed like that for what felt like a long, long time.

* * *

Despite him agreeing to see the college counsellor, it didn't happen. It was the last week of classes, and all of us were so busy. Even though the finals had ended, there was still project submission. And then we closed for summer break. But at the end of the year, when the publishers chose Antonio's novel, he wept in a combination of grief for Ivan and real joy for himself.

Summer break for me was endless, but not in a bad way. Feli and I backpacked around Italy for a few weeks. Then later, back home, he got a job training at a small family restaurant. I would go out to the piazzas and paint, selling my pictures to whoever wanted to buy them. I didn't mind even if they just watched me for a while before going away. I was still happy.

I spoke to Antonio almost every day, and we'd talk about such perfectly silly things. I'd describe the tourists. I loved doing that. Antonio would sometimes complain about how difficult editing was and how he was too bored to bother, but I could still hear the excitement barely above the surface in his voice. That would always make me smile.

Some days were bad. Antonio did cut a couple of times, but he'd always call me up after and tell me. He'd be so shaky and nervous and weepy when he did, but then he'd promise me over and over again that he'd thrown away the blade and he'd try his best not to do it again. He'd tell his brother, too. So it was okay. I knew it would be okay, somehow. Antonio wasn't alone. I'd make sure he never felt alone. He even scratched a lot. And snapped that rubber band of his. But that was better than cutting, although I did gently encourage him to stop that too.

He dedicated his novel to Ivan Braginsky. Typical Antonio. He was very melancholy after he made that decision, and we stayed up all night on the phone, mostly not saying a word.

But after we came back to college for the new year, it was Antonio who quietly reminded me about the counsellor. As always, he was so nervous, so shy, when he asked. He didn't request my company, but I came along anyway. I knew he appreciated it.

And after fifteen minutes of agonising waiting outside her office, staring at the sign on her office door, her assistant told us in a perky voice that he could go inside. I felt Antonio tense beside me, I heard his breath catch in his throat. He took my hand, and I squeezed it.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked him quietly.

He didn't look directly at me, but I could still see his eyes. I could still study them. And I watched how his emotions shifted, memories fluttering before him. I think he was remembering Ivan in that moment. And then the light in his irises changed to something else, something far more personal, and I realised he was thinking about himself now. About every little experience that had led up to this one moment of decision.

And then he looked at me, smiled bravely, and said, "Yes."

I kissed him for good luck, knowing that the person who walked out of this office today would be shaken. Knowing he'd be tired, depressed, and unresponsive. But knowing that it was all necessary. That the poison had to come out.

And in the end, I knew it would be all right. I knew he'd change the world. I knew he'd have every comfort. I knew he'd get himself out of this.

Most importantly, I knew, eventually, that he'd be happy.

And I knew that every little episode, every little slip-up, every little argument, would be worth it.

We'd be all right.

We'd be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Issues like these don't have a magic solution. I wanted to end on this note. Antonio finally striving to become happy again.
> 
> This might seem irrelevant, but I've decided I'm going to make this fic into a novel. At least, I'm going to use the general plot-line, and some of the characters' personality traits. Let's see how that goes, haha. I'm quite behind on editing the novel I've already written xD
> 
> Thank you for sticking with the story!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment :)


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